■yl 


MY     STORY 


Books  by  Hall  Caine 


My  Story 
The  Prodigal  Son 
The  Eternal  City 
The  Christian 
The  Manxman 


The  Deemster 

The  Bondman 

The   Scapegoat 

The  Little  Manx   Nation 

Capt'n  Davy's  Honeymoon 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  New  York 


Hall  Caine. 


MY    STORY 


By  HALL   CAINE 


ILLUSTRATED 


■    *   *  A    , 


•     »   •»  .       -  ' 


D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 
NEW    YORK  MCMIX 


Copyright,  1908,  1909,  by 
D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Publinhed  February,  1909 


•    «         t    •  . 


I       til  I     t  «.  I 

•     •  •  f.         I      • , 

♦    .     '       '     L      »        t      t      t        I     « 


INTRODUCTION 

When  I  began  to  write  this  book  I  had  no 
other  intention  than  that  of  revising  and  per- 
haps enlarging  a  little  volume  of  recollections 
of  Rossetti  which  I  had  published  immediately 
after  the  poet's  death;  but  I  had  not  gone  far 
before  I  realised  that  I  was  doing  two  things 
which  I  had  not  contemplated — I  was  produc- 
ing an  entirely  new  book  that  owed  little  or 
nothing  to  the  earlier  effort,  and  I  was  pre- 
senting a  portrait  of  my  friend  that  could  only 
be  of  value  to  the  student  of  life  in  relation 
to  its  point  of  view. 

That  point  of  view,  when  I  came  to  consider 
it,  was,  I  thought,  fresh,  and  such  as  might  be 
found  to  be  interesting.  A  young  man  of  five- 
and-twenty,  brought  up  in  the  country,  untu- 
tored and  unknown,  with  nothing  to  recom- 
mend him  but  some  knowledge  and  an  immense 
love  of  books,  had  by  certain  strange  revolu- 
tions of  the  wheel  of  chance  become  the  inti- 
mate friend,  and  for  a  while  the  companion 
and  housemate,  of  a  great  and  illustrious  poet- 


INTRODUCTION 

painter,  who  had  been  born  in  a  very  hot-bed 
of  literature  and  art,  and  was  then  living  out 
in  the  closest  seclusion  the  last  days  of  a  life 
that  was  saddened  by  many  unhappy  experi- 
ences, and  quite  unbrightened  by  world-wide 
fame.  Such  was  the  basis  of  my  relation  with 
Rossetti,  and  sitting  down  now,  at  more 
than  twice  the  age  to  which  I  had  attained 
when  the  poet  and  I  lived  together,  to  paint 
in  loving  memory  a  picture  of  my  friend 
as  he  had  presented  himself  to  me,  I  soon 
became  aware  that,  however  unwittingly,  I 
was  a  principal  character  in  my  own  drama, 
and  was  hardly  doing  more  than  making 
a  record  of  my  first  great  literary  friend- 
ship. 

Therefore  the  consciousness,  from  which  I 
could  not  esca])e,  that,  little  as  I  had  intended 
to  produce  an  auto])iography,  I  was  at  all 
events  writing  an  account  of  my  beginning  in 
literature,  led  me  at  length  to  look  frankly  at 
my  task  as  such,  with  the  result  that  the  book, 
as  now  published,  contains  much  beside  my 
recollections  of  Rossetti,  though  these  must 
needs  bulk  largely  in  any  story  of  my  first 
twenty-five  years,  so  great  was  my  debt  to  the 
friend  who  did  so  much  for  me  in  those  days, 
and  so  lasting  the  influence  which  his  friend- 

vi 


INTRODUCTION 

ship,  if  not  his  mind  or  his  art,  has  since  ex- 
ercised upon  me. 

Knowing  well,  however,  that  there  is  much 
in  the  life  of  nearly  every  man  of  letters,  and 
in  my  own  life  in  particular,  that  can  be  of 
little  interest  to  the  public,  I  made  no  attempt 
whatever  to  tell  a  detailed  story  of  my  early 
days,  but  confined  my  autobiographical  frag- 
ment to  an  account  of  my  literary  relations, 
sometimes  very  intimate,  sometimes  very 
slight,  always  very  important  to  me,  with  Rus- 
kin,  R.  D.  Blackmore,  Wilkie  Collins,  Robert 
Buchanan,  T.  E.  Brown,  Henry  Irving,  Tenny- 
son, and  Gladstone,  as  well  as  the  great  and 
unhappy  poet  whose  sad  comradeship  during 
his.  last  dark  days  gave  me  an  excuse  for  the 
majority  of  these  pages. 

Nevertheless,  in  eliminating  my  personal 
narrative,  except  so  far  as  it  concerned  these 
large  and  lasting  figures,  I  thought  I  might  be 
pardoned  if  I  began  my  book  with  a  sketch  of 
my  childhood  and  youth  in  the  Isle  of  Man, 
partly  for  the  sake  of  the  picture  it  must  needs 
present  of  a  curiously  self-centred  little  com- 
munity that  was  strangely  out  of  touch  and 
harmony  with  the  rest  of  our  kingdom  as  re- 
cently as  half  a  century  ago,  and  partly,  per- 
haps,  for  such  interest  as   it  might  possibly 

•  « 

Vll 


INTRODUCTION 

possess  for  some  of  the  readers  of  tlie  novels 
■with  which  my  name  is  usually  associated. 

Aside,  however,  from  this  section  of  its  con- 
tents, the  volume  I  now  offer  to  the  public  will, 
I  trust,  be  found  to  be  not  so  much  an  auto- 
biography of  my  first  twenty-five  years  as  my 
grateful  and  affectionate  story  of  those  first 
friendships  which  have  been  the  most  precious 
rewards  of  my  literary  life,  and  the  best  things 
I  have  got  for  my  books. 

H.  C. 

Khartoum,  1908. 


CONTENTS 


PART   ONE 

CHAPTER 

I. — Early  Days  in  the  Isle  of  Man   . 
II. — Early  Days  in  Liverpool. 
III. — My  First  Literary  Friends 
IV. — The  Beginning  of  a  Great  Friendship 


PAGE 

3 

30 
44 
60 


PART   TWO 

I. — ^The  Story  of  My  Friend's  Life 
II. — My  First  Meeting  with  Rossetti 
III. — A  Xight  at  Cheyne  Walk 
IV. — I  Become  Rossetti 's  Housemate 
V. — Rossetti  and  His  Friends 
VI. — First  Weeks  in  the  Vale  of  St.  John 
VII. — Last  Weeks  in  the  Vale  of  St.  John 

VIII. — Back  in  Chelsea 

IX. — The  Last  of  Home      .... 

X. — At  Birchington 

XI. — "Whatever  There  Is  to  Know"    . 

XII.— "That  Shall  We  Know  One  Day" 

ix 


75 
100 
112 
133 
150 
165 
183 
200 
208 
218 
228 
236 


CONTENTS 

PART   THREE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — I  Become  a  Journalist 243 

II. — John  Ruskin 254 

III. — Robert  Buchanan 263 

IV. — I  Become  a  Novelist 272 

V. — R.  D.  Blackmore 286 

VI. — My  First  Manx  Novel 300 

VII.— WiLKiE  Collins 319 

VIII.— My  First  Play 336 

IX. — My  First  Visits  to  America 350 

X. — The  Literary  Life 365 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 


Hall  Caine Frontispiece 

Manx  Cottage,  Sulley 12 

Rushen  Castle,  Castletown,  Isle  of  Man 28 

Maughold  Church,  Isle  of  Man 40 

A  Letter  from  Rossetti 64 

Rossetti's  Green  Dining  Room 108 

Sonnet  by  Rossetti 144 

Ruskin  and  Rossetti 178 

Ruskin's  Study  at  Brantwood 260 

Tynwold  Hill,  the  Ancient  Mount  of  Laws,  Isle  of  Man        .  302 

Runic  Crosses  at  Douglas  Kirk,  Braddon        ....  312 

Wilkie  Collins 324 

Peel,  Isle  of  Man 348 

Greeba  Castle,  the  Home  of  Hall  Caine,  Isle  of  Man     .        .  360 

Dining  Room  at  Greeba  Castle 368 

Portrait  of  Tennyson 382 


PART   ONE 


CHAPTER   I 

EARLY    DAYS   IN    THE    ISLE    OF    MAN 

THE  story  of  how  I  became  a  novelist 
takes  me  back  nearly  fifty  years,  when, 
as  a  child  of  five,  I  was  living  off  and 
on  at  intervals  in  a  little  thatched  cottage  on 
the  high-road  through  one  of  the  remoter  par- 
ishes in  the  Isle  of  Man.  It  was  the  home  of 
an  micle  who  was  a  small  farmer  as  well  as 
a  butcher.  In  his  character  as  farmer  he  cul- 
tivated some  thirty  acres  of  land,  much  of  it 
hilly  and  hungry,  and  some  of  it  boggy  and 
peaty.  In  his  character  as  butcher  he  killed 
the  sheep  he  had  grazed  on  the  mountain  slopes, 
and  made  weekly  journeys  to  Douglas,  the 
chief  town  of  the  island,  to  sell  his  meat  from 
a  stall  which  stood  in  the  market-place  under 
the  turret  of  an  old  church. 

On  one  of  these  journeys  I  was  permitted  to 
go  with  him,  and  though  I  knew  it  so  little  at 
the  time,  I  think  now  that  not  only  my  first 
clear  impression  of  the  Isle  of  Man,  but  also 

3 


MY    STORY 

my  earliest  sense  of  life  and  the  world,  must 
date  from  that  experience.  A  range  of  hills 
crosses  the  island  from  the  northeast  to  the 
northwest,  and  onr  home  lay  on  the  north  side 
of  them,  while  Douglas  lies  on  the  south.  My 
recollection  is  that,  contrary  to  the  usual  prac- 
tice of  farmer  butchers,  which  was  to  go  round 
the  little  range,  my  uncle  travelled  to  Douglas 
by  a  pass  that  crossed  the  mountains  through 
the  valley  called  Sulby  Glen.  In  order  to  real- 
ise what  that  journey  meant  to  me,  and  the  im- 
pression it  made  upon  my  mind,  it  is  necessary 
to  think  of  me  as  a  child. 

We  were  in  an  open  cart  without  springs, 
and  a  comer  was  left  for  me  amid  the  car- 
casses of  sheep  and  lambs,  and  the  clusters  of 
"  plucks  "  and  "  heads,"  while  the  uncle,  in  the 
Garibaldian  red  shirt  he  generally  wore,  sat 
on  the  front  board  with  his  feet  on  the  shaft. 
That  ascent  of  Snaefell,  and  the  getting  to  the 
top,  and  then  the  wilderness  of  waste  space 
with  the  sea  on  every  hand,  and  finally  the  de- 
scent into  the  new  world  beyond,  where  the  un- 
known town  lay  far  away  in  the  depths  below, 
was  a  breathless  adventure.  I  have  crossed 
most  of  the  great  passes  of  Europe  since  then, 
but  none  of  them  have  brought  me  such  a  thrill- 
ing sense  of  the  vastness  of  the  world  and  the 

4 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    THE    ISLE    OF    MAN 

mighty  things  of  nature.  And  yet  it  was  only 
our  poor  little  Isle  of  Man  seen  through  the 
eyes  of  a  child. 

I  remember  that  it  was  dark  when  we 
reached  Douglas,  and  that  the  bustle  and  stir 
of  the  principal  thoroughfare,  Strand  Street 
(narrow  still,  but  narrower  then,  I  think,  than 
it  now  is),  seemed  to  me  perilous  and  bewilder- 
ing. The  little  town  with  its  ten  thousand  in- 
habitants, or  less,  was  full  of  the  teeming  and 
tumultuous  life  of  a  vast  and  mighty  city.  We 
put  up  for  the  night  somewhere  behind  the 
market-place,  in  a  house  frequented  by  other 
farmer  butchers  from  the  country,  and  we 
slept  in  the  same  room  with  four  of  them.  In 
the  cottage  in  Ballaugh  we  had  a  room  to  our- 
selves, though  it  was  little  and  the  roof  lay  low 
over  it,  and  when  you  were  lying  in  bed,  you 
could  smell  the  sweet  "  scraas,"  the  dry  turf 
bedding,  under  the  thatch;  but  this  was  a  vast 
chamber,  some  twelve  feet  by  fifteen  at  the 
least,  with  three  beds  and  a  sheepskin  by  the 
side  of  each  of  them. 

"We  had  brought  our  dog  with  us,  a  white- 
eyed  Manx  collie,  and  I  remember  that  he  slept 
on  the  sheepskin  by  the  bedside,  while  the  dogs 
of  our  room-fellows,  being  of  a  quarrelsome 
disposition,  had  to  sleep  outside  the  bedroom 
3  5 


MY    STORY 

door.  And  thus,  amid  the  gossip  of  the  men  as 
tliey  talked  in  the  darlmess  after  going  to  bed, 
very  tired,  yet  with  a  large  sense  of  being  a 
mighty  traveller,  I  fell  asleep.  I  have  travelled 
a  good  deal  since  then,  but  I  do  not  think  I  have 
ever  gone  to  bed  in  Africa  or  Asia  or  America 
or  within  the  Arctic  Circle  with  so  strong  a 
sense  of  being  a  whole  hemisphere  away  from 
home. 

Next  morning  I  was  the  last  to  be  stirring, 
and  by  that  time  the  booths  were  all  up  in  the 
market-place,  and  there  was  a  great  cackle  and 
cry  there,  and  business  was  going  like  a  forest 
fire.  I  could  see  my  uncle  in  a  linen  apron,  and 
he  was  putting  the  copper  and  silver  of  his  cus- 
tomers into  the  two  pockets  of  a  bag  which 
was  stitched  to  the  front  of  it,  and  their  gold 
into  a  stocking  purse  which  he  kept  in  his 
breeches  pocket.  The  bag  became  big  and  the 
stocking  became  fat,  and  I  had  a  sense  of 
boundless  wealth  which  will  never  come  again. 

The  great  day  came  to  an  end  at  length,  and 
then  the  booth  was  taken  down  and  our  mare 
was  brought  round  and  harnessed  to  her  empty 
cart,  and  we  drove  away  in  a  long  line  of  other 
empty  carts  through  the  gathering  darkness 
of  Saturday  night — the  farmer  butcher  in  his 
red  shirt,  and  the  great  little  traveller,  very 

6 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    THE    ISLE    OF    MAN 

tired  and  sleepy,  snoozing  down  under  the  cov- 
ering of  a  moist  new  sheepskin,  along  the  main 
westerly  road  of  the  island,  the  Peel  road, 
under  the  house  (which  seemed  so  vast)  where 
I  live  now  with  my  own  children,  up  Creg 
Willie's  hill  at  the  tail  of  the  mountain  range, 
and  thus  home  to  the  thatched  cottage  in  Bal- 
laugh. 

This  is  a  very  simple  story,  but  I  think  it 
records  in  its  homely  way  the  birth  of  what  the 
public  has  been  pleased  to  call  the  Manx  novel- 
ist. The  child  is  father  to  the  man,  and  what 
I  felt  nearly  fifty  years  ago  about  the  Isle  of 
Man,  that  it  was  the  whole  world  in  little,  that 
all  the  interests,  all  the  emotions,  all  the  pas- 
sions, and  almost  all  the  experiences  of  man- 
kind lay  there  on  that  rock  in  the  Irish  Sea, 
has  been  the  motive  inspiring  my  books.  It 
has  inspired  the  books  which  have  had  the 
island  for  their  scene  no  more  than  those  which 
have  not,  for  if  I  have  learned  anything  l)y 
five-and-twentv  years  of  almost  continuous 
travel  it  is  that  humanity  is  one  and  the  same 
ever^^where,  and  that  nothing  I  had  known  of 
our  tiny  Manx  race  was  out  of  harmony  with 
what  I  saw  in  races  great  and  small  at  the  far- 
thest comers  of  the  earth. 

I  hold  myself,  however,  more  fortunate  than 

7 


MY    STORY 

some  of  my  fellow-novelists  (though  begin- 
niug  life  with  many  obvious  disadvantages, 
and  under  conditions  so  little  likely  to  develop 
the  literary  faculty)  in  being  brought  up  as  a 
boy  in  a  little  self-centred  community  where 
it  was  possible  to  see  the  human  drama  very 
plain  because  very  close.  We  were  forty  or 
fifty  thousand  all  told  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  and 
we  were  really  as  one  big  family  whereof 
nearly  every  member  seemed  to  know  some- 
thing of  nearly  everybody  else.  Our  isolation 
from  the  rest  of  the  kingdom,  our  inevitable 
intermarriage,  and  the  unity  of  our  material 
interests  made  our  impulses,  our  passions,  our 
beliefs,  our  superstitions  an  open  book  for  any 
of  us  to  read,  and  it  must  have  been  my  own 
fault  if,  with  so  many  opportunities  of  reading 
the  human  story  in  the  impressionable  days  of 
childhood,  I  did  not  learn  a  little  of  it  by  heart. 
The  thatched  cottage  in  Ballaugh  was  the 
home  of  my  grandmother  as  well  as  my  uncle, 
and  I  remember  her  almost  entirely  (for  she 
died  when  I  was  still  a  child)  as  the  source  of 
certain  superstitious  ])eliefs  which  to  this  hour 
I  find  it  impossible  to  shake  off.  She  was  a 
little  Manxwoman,  very  old  and  much  bent, 
dressed  in  the  blue  homespun  of  the  island, 
and  occupied  with  the  light  labour  of  the  house- 

8 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    THE    ISLE    OF    MAN 

hold,  while  the  lustier  members  of  the  family 
were  at  work  in  the  fields.  I  see  her  in  my 
mind's  eye  yet  gathering  up  the  dry  gorse  that 
lay  about  the  stack  yard,  then  feeding  the  fire 
under  the  "  oven  pot "  that  hung  from  the 
"  sloughry,"  a  long  iron  rod  and  hook,  over  the 
open  hearth.  She  called  me  "  Ilommy-beg," 
which  was  Manx  for  "  little  Tommy,"  and  I 
think  I  must  have  been  much  in  her  company, 
for  I  have  the  clearest  memory  of  countless 
stories  she  told  me  of  fairies  and  witches  and 
witch  doctors  and  the  evil  eye. 

One  of  her  stories  was  of  a  troop  of  fairies 
who  chased  her  home  on  a  moonlight  night 
when  she  was  a  girl.  They  were  merry  little 
fellows,  wearing  cocked  hats  and  velvet  jack- 
ets, and  they  kept  prancing  and  dancing  about 
her  as  she  ran  in  frantic  terror  along  the  lonely 
road  until  she  came  within  sight  of  the  lighted 
window  of  her  mother's  house  on  the  "  cur- 
ragh,"  the  marshy  meadow  land,  and  then  they 
suddenly  disappeared.  Some  of  them  were 
malignant  as  well  as  mischievous,  and  she  had 
seen  them  flitting  along  with  lanterns,  the  night 
after  a  storm,  to  the  door  of  some  lone  woman 
whose  man  was  a  fisherman  away  at  the  "  her- 
rings "  and  was  afterward  found  to  be  lost  at 
sea.    There  were  good  fairies,  too,  and  one  of 

9 


MY    STORY 

these,  whose  name  was  Phonoderee,  would 
come  to  poor  people's  houses  at  night,  when 
everybody  was  asleep,  and  card  the  wool  for 
the  women  and  churn  the  milk  for  the  girls. 
You  had  to  be  kind  to  Phonoderee  or  he  might 
become  angry  and  even  spiteful,  so  last  thing 
at  night,  before  going  to  bed,  my  grandmother 
would  lay  out  on  the  kitchen  table  a  crock  of 
fresh  water,  with  perhaps  a  bowl  of  new  milk 
and  a  plate  of  "  bonnag,"  which  was  barley 
bread.    I  remember  to  have  seen  her  do  it. 

She  believed  in  every  kind  of  supernatural 
influence,  the  earth  and  the  air  were  full  of 
spiritual  things  for  her,  and  I  suppose  some  of 
her  simple  faith  must  have  fixed  itself  on  the 
cells  of  my  brain,  for,  however  stubborn  the 
scepticism  of  my  waking  hours,  in  my  sleep 
the  superstitions  of  my  childhood  are  with  me 
still.  I  cannot  remember  that  she  could  read, 
and  yet  she  knew  much  of  the  Manx  Bible  by 
heart,  and  by  the  exercise  of  some  unaccount- 
able sense  she  could  turn  up  a  text  at  the 
l^roper  page.  She  certainly  could  not  write, 
and  one  of  the  miracles  of  life  to  her  was  how 
I,  at  five  or  six  years  of  age,  could  "  read  writ- 
ing," but  she  knew  a  world  of  things  which  I 
did  not  know  and  have  never  in  the  same  de- 
gree been  able  to  learn.     She  knew  when  the 

10 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    THE    ISLE    OP    MAN 

storms  were  coming  by  a  look  at  the  sky,  and 
she  could  tell  the  time  within  a  few  minutes  by 
sight  of  the  stars.  She  knew  a  bad  man  as  she 
knew  the  clouds  by  the  signs  of  trouble  in  his 
face,  and  she  could  see  a  good  heart  through 
a  clear  countenance  as  she  saw  the  stones  at 
the  bottom  of  the  well.  I  think  of  her  as  she 
used  to  sit  on  a  low,  three-legged  stool,  feed- 
ing the  fire  with  the  crackling  gorse,  while  she 
told  me  wondrous  tales  of  the  "  little  men,"  and 
I  tell  myself  now  that,  bewildered  as  she  would 
have  been  to  hear  it,  my  old  Manx  grandmother 
was  a  poet. 

It  will  be  gathered  from  what  I  have  said 
that  my  grandmother's  house  was  a  poor  one, 
but  I  can  truly  say  that  though  poverty  lived 
under  that  simple  roof-tree  it  was  poverty  so 
sweet,  so  clean,  so  free  from  want  that  in  all 
the  years  since  I  have  never  seen  wealth  that 
has  seemed  to  me  so  human  and  so  beautiful. 
The  kitchen  was  our  dining-room  as  well  as 
our  cooking-room,  for  the  parlour  was  a  chill 
place,  never  entered  except  when  the  parson 
called — a  mausoleum  of  musty  knitted  things 
and  curious  pieces  of  old  china.  But  in  the 
warm  and  living  kitchen  the  middle  of  the  floor 
might  be  only  of  hard  earth,  but  the  flagstones 
around  it  and  the  big  blue  hearthstone  in  the 

11 


MY    STORY 

open  ingle  were  always  washed  and  whitened; 
the  plates  on  the  dresser  were  always  bright, 
and  hams  always  hung  with  the  whips  from 
hooks  in  the  whitewashed  joists  of  the  floor 
above. 

We  burned  peat,  for  coal  was  dear  in  those 
days,  and  whenever  I  smell  a  turf  fire  now  I 
am  fifty  years  younger  in  a  minute.  Our  tal- 
low candles  were  made  by  my  grandmother  in 
a  kind  of  iron  dip,  which  I  have  never  seen 
since,  and  she  span  yam  from  the  wool  of  our 
own  sheep,  and  it  was  woven  by  an  old  weaver 
who  lived  alone  with  his  loom  near  by,  and  then 
it  was  made  into  clothes  for  the  men  and  some- 
times into  petticoats  for  the  women  by  the  trav- 
elling tailor,  who  came  and  sat  cross-legged  on 
the  kitchen  table.  Our  food  was  as  simple  as 
it  could  be,  and  nothing  could  have  been  more 
simply  served.  On  Sundays  we  usually  had 
two  or  three  boiled  sheep's  heads,  hot  for  din- 
ner and  cold  for  supper,  and  on  other  days  of 
the  week  we  generally  had  potatoes  and  her- 
rings. The  herrings  were  on  separate  plates 
about  the  table,  but  the  potatoes,  which  were 
always  boiled  in  their  jackets,  were  piled  up  in 
one  great  dish  in  the  middle,  and  we  helped 
ourselves  as  we  required.  At  breakfast  we 
often  ate  eggs,  which  were  plentiful,  and  some- 

12 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    THE    ISLE    OF    MAN 

times  drank  tea,  that  cost  four  shillings  a 
pound,  I  remember;  but  we  always  had  por- 
ridge, which,  being  boiled  in  the  oven  pot  and 
poured  into  a  large  white  liowl,  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  table  with  a  big  spoon  in  it  l)y 
which  everybody  helped  himself,  lifting  what  he 
wanted  into  his  basin  of  fresh  milk — warm  and 
frothy  for  me  from  the  morning's  milking.  We 
had  no  well,  and  therefore  no  pump,  and  con- 
sequently no  pipes,  but  we  got  our  water  from 
a  stream  that  ran  down  the  mountainside,  and 
kept  it  in  a  tall  crock  in  a  corner  of  the  kitchen, 
brown  on  the  outside  and  blue-ljlack  within,  and 
when  we  wanted  a  drink  we  dipped  a  little  blue 
basin  into  it.  We  all  sat  together  at  meals,  the 
master  of  the  house  and  the  farm  man,  the 
casual  caller,  and  even  the  passing  beggar 
(though  we  never  thought  of  calling  him  so), 
only  the  grandmother,  like  Martha,  on  her  feet, 
busy  with  much  serving. 

If  I  have  painted  this  little  picture  of  our 
primitive  patriarchal  life  in  a  remote  parish 
of  the  Isle  of  Man  as  recently  as  fifty  years  ago, 
it  has  not  been  merely  for  its  own  sake,  but 
chiefly  in  order  to  say  that  poverty,  if  it  is 
sweet  and  not  bitter,  is  in  my  view  a  condi- 
tion far  more  blessed  of  God  than  wealth, 
bringing  human  hearts  closer  together  in  mu- 

13 


MY    STORY 

tual  dependence  and  brotherhood.  I  think  that 
is  why  the  poor  are  so  good  to  each  other,  and 
when  I  remember  the  intimacies  of  my  own 
earlier  days,  both  in  my  grandmother's  house 
and  in  my  mother's,  my  rapturous  joy  in  the 
possession  of  little  things,  I  am  almost  sorry 
for  my  own  children  because  they  were  born 
to  a  condition  of  life  which  I  had  worked  so 
hard  to  make  better  than  my  own.  Certain  I 
am  that  for  the  work  I  had  to  do  in  reading 
and  describing  the  characters  of  people  noth- 
ing could  have  been  so  good  for  me  as  the  life 
I  lived  in  my  youth. 

There  was  an  aunt  in  our  household  at  Bal- 
laugh,  a  strapping  country  girl  in  her  twenties, 
not  yet  married,  and  through  her  I  came  to 
learn  something  of  more  substantial  aspects  of 
life.  I  remember  that  it  was  an  accepted  law 
of  Manx  courtship  in  those  days  that  it  should 
be  done  late  at  night  after  the  elder  members 
of  the  family  had  put  out  the  "  dip  "  candles 
and  gone  to  bed,  leaving  the  dark  kitchen  to 
the  girls,  whose  "  boys  "  by  an  amiable  fiction 
were  supposed  to  be  imknown.  I  also  remem- 
ber that  in  other  houses  this  custom  had  its 
obvious  consequences,  and  that  there  was  too 
often  a  "  bye-child  "  in  a  country  house.  But 
our  community  was  generally  indulgent  to  sins 

14 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    THE    ISLE    OF    MAN 

of  the  senses,  and  one  of  the  insular  laws,  con- 
ceived, I  think,  by  the  good  Bishop  Wilson,  was 
meant  to  make  it  easy  for  transgressors  to 
atone  for  their  transgressions  both  to  their  off- 
spring and  to  themselves.  If  a  girl  who  had 
given  birth  to  a  bastard  married  the  father  of 
it  "  within  a  year  or  two,"  never  having  com- 
promised herself  by  relations  with  another 
man,  her  child  became  legitimate.  I  remember 
that  there  was  a  curious  ceremony  of  legitima- 
tion, wherein  the  mother  while  being  married 
in  church  tucked  her  baby  under  her  petticoat, 
but  whether  I  ever  witnessed  a  scene  like  this 
or  only  heard  of  it  I  cannot  recall.  What  cer- 
tainly remains  with  me  is  a  vivid  sense  of  the 
spiritual  righteousness  of  this  old  Manx  law, 
and  I  think  more  than  one  of  my  books  derives 
something  from  my  memory  of  its  beneficent 
effect. 

We  were  a  litigious  lot  in  the  Isle  of  Man 
fifty  years  ago,  and  the  members  of  our  big 
family  were  constantly  quarrelling  in  the 
courts.  I  think  our  people  liked  the  excitement 
of  legal  disputes,  and  I  have  known  two  broth- 
ers "  put  the  law  "  on  each  other  about  a  coil 
of  rope.  As  a  result  everybody  knew  every- 
thing about  everybody  else,  their  quarrels,  their 
property  and  their  prospects,  so  that  the  peo- 

15 


MY    STORY 

pie  of  one  parish  were  as  the  members  not  of 
one  family  merely  bnt  of  one  household,  and 
a  cow  could  not  calve  or  a  sow  have  a  litter  of 
pigs  but  we  all  knew  something  about  it.  This 
may  have  made  good  ground  for  envy  and  mal- 
ice and  all  uncharitableness,  but  it  made  good 
ground  for  Christian  charity  and  brotherly  af- 
fection, too,  and  it  certainly  made  good  ground 
for  the  student  of  life  if  there  was  a  child 
among  us  "  takin'  notes." 

We  had  no  poor  law  in  the  Isle  of  Man  in 
my  boyhood,  and  the  machinery  whereby  alms 
were  distributed  to  the  old  and  incapable  was 
of  the  simplest  and  most  patriarchal.  AVlien 
age  or  asthma,  or  more  frequently  rheumatism, 
left  a  man  unable  to  follow  either  of  the  twin 
callings  of  the  Manxman,  fishing  or  farming, 
he  made  up  his  mind  without  many  qualms  to 
"  go  on  the  houses."  This  was  a  species  of 
pauperism  which  apparently  hurt  no  man's 
pride,  for  it  merely  consisted  in  paying  calls 
on  his  neighbours  at  certain  seasons  of  the 
year,  once,  twice,  or  thrice,  and  being  assisted 
in  kind  toward  the  maintenance  of  his  own 
household.  He  was  generally  an  old  "widda 
man,"  a  widower,  living  alone  in  some  little 
mud  cottage  on  the  curragh,  but  sometimes  he 
had  an  old  invalid  wife  at  home,  bedridden  for 

16 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    THE    ISLE    OP    MAN 

years,  and  he  came  with  a  sack  into  which  his 
neighbours  poured  measures  of  meal,  both  oat- 
meal and  barley  meal,  and  then  gave  him  per- 
haps some  pinches  of  tea  screwed  up  in  paper, 
which  he  stowed  away  in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 
I  saw  many  such  visitors  in  my  early  days, 
and  one  of  them,  known  as  Charles,  was  a  kind 
of  privileged  pet  of  everybody,  being  "  hardly 
wise,"  and  yet  capable  of  flashes  of  wit  and  sal- 
lies of  satire  that  were  the  current  coin  of  the 
whole  country.  As  far  as  I  can  remember 
Charles  had  no  fixed  abode,  but  tramped  the 
island  from  north  to  south,  and  therefore  lived 
"  on  the  houses  "  in  every  sense.  He  came,  as 
by  right,  and  took  his  seat  without  ado  in  the 
"  chollagh,"  the  warm  place  in  the  open  ingle. 
There  was  a  bed  for  him  everywhere,  if  it  was 
only  a  shake-down  in  the  loft  of  the  stable,  and 
he  went  away  when  he  was  so  minded.  He  was 
welcomed  in  a  spirit  of  charity  that  had  not  a 
particle  of  pride  in  it,  but  he  earned  his  board 
by  bringing  "  the  newses  "  from  other  places. 
Charles,  like  the  travelling  tailor  who  came  at 
intervals  to  make  our  clothes  out  of  our  own 
homespun,  was  the  perambulating  reporter  of 
the  period.  He  claimed  a  reporter's  right  to 
subedit  his  intelligences,  and  exercised  it  with 
an  effect  that  was  sometimes  startling.    I  see 

17 


MY    STOKY 

him  still  in  my  mind's  eye,  the  wild-eyed  old 
beggar  with  a  ram's  horn  swung  about  his  neck, 
for  he  was  a  great  follower  of  Father  Matthew 
and  a  fierce  foe  of  the  publicans,  and  as  often 
as  he  came  upon  a  brewery  he  went  braying 
round  it  by  the  hour  in  the  full  conviction  that, 
like  the  walls  of  Jericho,  it  must  some  day  fall. 
I  am  afraid  it  must  be  admitted  that  lunacy 
was  not  rare  in  our  little  close  community,  for 
consanguinity  in  marriage  was  commoner  than 
it  is  now,  and  I  remember  with  a  shiver  and  a 
thrill  the  shifts  our  poor  people  were  put  to 
as  late  as  my  own  early  days  to  provide  for  the 
insane.  There  was  no  asylum  in  the  island 
then,  and  if  a  man  went  mad  and  was  believed 
to  be  dangerous  he  was  put  away  in  an  out- 
house with  a  chain  to  his  leg  and  straw  for  his 
bed.  I  must  have  seen  many  maniacs  in  this 
condition,  and  nothing  I  have  since  learned  of 
insanity  has  left  so  strong  a  sense  of  its  ter- 
rors. Sometimes  it  was  the  father  of  the  fam- 
ily who  was  thus  stowed  away,  sometimes  a 
son,  but  occasionally  the  mother,  the  "  big 
woman  "  of  the  farm  and  the  person  least  easy 
to  spare,  while  the  eldest  girl  took  up  the  du- 
ties of  the  woman  of  the  house,  as  well  as 
tended  and  cleaned,  and  perhaps  scolded  and 
chastised  the  lone  one  in  the  loft.    I  think  of 

18 


EAKLY    DAYS    IN    THE    ISLE    OF    MAN 

the  horror  of  the  padlocked  place,  of  the  wild 
cries  in  the  middle  of  stormy  nights,  of  the 
possible  moments  of  sanity  in  the  insane,  of 
the  feeling  of  the  rest  of  the  family  that  the 
father,  son,  sister,  mother  is  with  them  and 
not  of  them,  outside  in  the  onthouse  while  they 
lie  warm  in  their  beds,  separated  by  something 
more  cruel  than  death,  more  asundering  than 
the  grave,  and  I  wonder  that  the  awful  con- 
dition could  have  been  allowed  to  last  so  long. 

It  lasted  until  Wilkie  Collins  visited  the 
island  when  he  was  .writing  "  Armadale,"  and  I 
remember  hearing  from  a  former  attorney-gen- 
eral, Sir  James  Gell,  that  after  certain  letters 
written  by  Collins  to  the  Times  the  Home  Of- 
fice told  our  insular  Legislature  that  if  they 
did  not  quickly  make  proper  provision  for  their 
poor  lunatics  the  imperial  authorities  would  do 
so  and  charge  them  with  the  expense. 

Our  Government  in  those  days  was  an  anom- 
alous creation  mingled  of  officialism  and  feudal 
power.  We  had  inherited  a  right  to  rule  our- 
selves without  restraint  from  the  English  Par- 
liament, and  we  did  so  by  means  of  a  people's 
chamber,  the  House  of  Keys,  whereof  the  mem- 
bers elected  themselves,  and  acted  under  a 
governor  and  executive  council  appointed  by 
the  English  Crown.    As  a  consequence,  the  peo- 

19 


MY    STORY 

pie  of  the  soil  had  sometimes  to  be  grateful  if 
they  were  permitted  to  exist,  and  among  my 
earliest  memories  is  that  of  my  uncle  in  the 
Garibaldian  red  shirt  protesting  to  an  inspec- 
tor, who  was  calling  for  corvee — forced  labour 
on  the  roads — that  if  things  went  much  farther 
we  should  not  be  "  able  to  call  our  souls  our 
own." 

I  do  not  know  if  it  was  a  result  of  our  au- 
tocratic form  of  government  that  the  banks 
became  so  powerful  that  they  were  able  to  de- 
mand higher  and  higher  interest  until  the  far- 
mers could  scarcely  live,  but  I  remember  that 
a  kind  of  amateur  banker,  the  parish  money 
lender,  was  created  by  this  condition.  One  such 
person,  a  gombeen  woman,  came  very  close  to 
my  own  family,  and  was  supposed  to  have  been 
the  ruin  of  my  grandfather,  who  was  a  bit  of 
a  Bohemian,  God  forgive  him,  and  sold  his 
birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage.  I  must  have 
seen  this  lady  at  close  quarters,  for  I  have  a 
vivid  recollection  of  certain  incidents  of  her 
last  illness,  when  she  "  got  religion  "  and  began 
to  have  misgivings  about  the  way  she  had  got 
her  gold.  In  the  middle  of  a, stormy  night  she 
sent  for  "  Uncle  Bill,"  and  asked  him  what  she 
ought  to  do  that  she  might  make  her  peace  with 
God,  whereupon  Uncle  Bill,  being  practical  in 

20 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    THE    ISLE    OF    MAN 

his  religion,  advised  the  immediate  return  of 
all  the  money  she  had  made  amiss. 

"  That's  impossible,"  she  said.  "  Some  of 
the  people  are  under  the  sod  these  teens  of 
years." 

"  Then  give  the  money  to  their  children," 
said  Uncle  Bill,  and  my  recollection  is  that  she 
made  a  certain  show  of  doing  so. 

It  was  a  weird  enough  scene  at  her  death- 
bed, the  withered  old  woman  counting  out  her 
ill-got  gold  and  giving  it  back  with  a  reluctant 
hand  to  the  children  whose  parents  she  had 
wronged,  while  the  "  Primitive "  class  leader 
"  put  up  a  word  of  prayer  "  or  led  the  company 
in  the  verse  of  a  hymn.  I  gave  it  all  at  full 
length,  but  with  some  inevitable  embellish- 
ments, in  one  of  the  books  I  wrote  years  after- 
ward. 

The  religious  life  of  the  Isle  of  Man  fifty 
years  ago  was  perhaps  on  the  whole  more  vo- 
cal than  active.  There  was  deep  piety  in  many 
places,  and  the  best  of  my  memories  of  those 
days  is  of  the  sweet  and  simple  faith  which 
expressed  itself  in  the  homely  lives  of  the  far- 
mers and  fishermen,  with  their  good  wives  and 
daughters,  among  whom  I  lived.  I  recall  the 
little  Methodist  chapels  dotted  over  every  part 
of  the  island  where,  not  on  Sundays  only  but 
3  21 


MY    STORY 

on  the  evenings  of  other  days  of  the  week,  a 
few  rugged  men,  with  their  big  coarse  hands 
and  tlieir  tanned  and  seamy  faces,  would  pray 
together  with  the  fervor  of  saints,  in  language 
gathered  from  the  "  old  book  "  that  had  an  el- 
evation and  a  distinction  that  is  lost  to  modern 
speech.  1  recall,  too,  the  camp  meetings  of 
that  time  with  their  rugged  peasant  preachers, 
great  preachers  as  I  think  they  must  have 
been,  judging  by  the  effects  they  produced 
upon  their  hearers,  and  the  delirious  emotion 
that  used  to  pass  over  the  people  as  with  the 
rush  of  a  mighty  wind. 

But  in  the  community  as  a  whole  there  was 
a  curious  mixture  of  sincerity  and  insincerity 
that  was  often  grotesque  and  sometimes  hu- 
morous. I  remember  that  intemperance  was 
not  one  of  the  failings  to  which  our  religious 
toleration  denied  frequent  forgiveness,  and  I 
recall  an  occasion  on  which  a  kinsman  of  my 
own,  who  was  equally  famous  for  his  love  of 
"  jough,"  a  kind  of  Manx  ale,  and  his  zealous 
efforts  on  the  "  plan-beg,"  the  little  jAan,  hav- 
ing returned  home  from  market  on  Saturday 
night  at  the  bottom  of  the  cart,  preached  on 
Sunday  morning  on  the  evils  of  backsliding. 

Drink  was  the  besetting  evil  of  the  island  in 
my  early  days,  and  I  think  I  shall  not  wrong 

22 


EARLY   DAYS    IN    THE    ISLE    OF   MAN 

the  truth  if  I  say  that  nearly  every  house  on 
the  main  roads  was  in  some  sort  a  public  house. 
As  a  consequence  there  were  high  doings  on 
the  highway  on  market  days,  and  the  Manx- 
man's sense  of  being  of  one  big  family  with 
all  other  Manxmen  was  not  carried  so  far  as 
to  interfere  with  his  right  to  administer  a  little 
brotherly  chastisement.  Town  was  against 
country  in  these  domestic  encounters  of  parish 
against  parish.  I  can  even  remember  that  in 
a  parish  of  both  hill  and  dale,  Kirk  Maughold, 
the  men  of  the  "  up-side "  looked  askance  at 
the  men  of  the  "  down-side,"  and  were  not 
sorry  if  Saturday  night  gave  them  an  oppor- 
tunity of  settling  their  geographical  differences 
on  the  road.  It  was  all  very  like  a  ridiculous 
travesty  of  the  national  quarrels  about  which 
we  hold  cabinet  councils  in  the  great  States  of 
the  world,  and  as  in  their  case  so  in  ours,  no 
tame  interpretation  of  the  doctrine  of  Chris- 
tianity was  permitted  to  interpose. 

I  remember,  too,  that  religion  was  kept  in 
its  place  with  us,  as  with  greater  races,  when- 
ever it  threatened  to  interfere  with  economic 
interests,  though  of  course  in  our  tiny  com- 
munity the  manifestations  of  dishonesty  looked 
large  and  crude  and  primitive.  Among  my 
earliest  memories  is  that  of  a  terrible  storm 

23 


MY    STORY 

early  in  the  spring,  and  of  being  awakened  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  by  shrill  shouts  out- 
side, where  the  men  of  our  little  farm  were 
struggling  to  hold  down  the  thatched  roof  of 
the  house  by  throwing  ropes  over  it  and  weight- 
ing them  down  with  stones,  while  the  wind  car- 
ried off  their  voices  like  the  screams  of  sea- 
gulls, and  the  boughs  of  an  oak  tree  lashed  the 
window  of  the  bedroom  in  which  I  found  my- 
self alone.  Next  morning  the  sun  was  shin- 
ing, and  the  air  was  as  still  as  a  sleeping  child, 
and  then  we  heard  of  a  schooner  that  had 
been  wrecked  on  the  coast  a  mile  or  two  down 
our  side  lane,  and  of  rolls  of  English  cloth 
which  had  been  washed  ashore.  I  would  not 
say  there  was  any  suspicion  of  wrecking,  but 
there  were  whispers  of  a  sort  of  smuggling, 
and  of  a  stone  tomb  in  the  old  Ballaugh  church 
that  showed  signs  of  having  been  disturbed, 
and  perhaps  these  surmises  derived  a  certain 
confirmation  when  on  Whitsunday  the  stal- 
wart sons  and  smart  daughters  of  the  farmer 
nearest  to  the  sea  presented  themselves  in 
church  in  brand-new  suits  of  a  wondrous  Eng- 
lish pattern. 

We  were  then,  as  we  are  now,  a  people 
strong  in  Nonconformity,  for  when  the  clergy, 
under  the  corrupting  influence  of  the  braggart 

24 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    THE    ISLE    OF    MAN 

court  of  the  latest  of  our  Lords  of  Man,  neg- 
lected tlie  spiritual  needs  of  the  people,  Wes- 
ley came  over  and  swept  the  island  as  with  a 
mighty  wave,  but  never  did  Church  and  Dis- 
sent live  on  easier  terms  together.  I  remem- 
ber that  one  of  my  many  uncles  in  varying 
degrees  removed,  for  we  were  all  kinsfolk,  was 
at  once  a  class  leader  among  the  "  Primitives  " 
and  Vicar's  warden  as  well,  and  I  cannot  re- 
call an  instance  in  which  his  two  functions  were 
found  to  conflict. 

"What  left  perhaps  the  strongest  impression 
on  my  mind  were  the  many  proofs  that  the 
church  belonged  to  the  people,  and  that  there 
were  times  when  they  could  almost  go  the 
length  of  turning  the  parson  out  of  it.  One 
of  these  was  Christmas  Eve,  when  it  was  the 
custom  of  the  parishioners  to  hold  a  service 
by  themselves.  The  service  was  called  "  Oiel 
Verree,"  the  Eve  of  Mary,  and  consisted  of  the 
singing  of  "  carvals,"  carols,  some  of  them  sa- 
cred and  often  shockingly  crude  in  their  lit- 
erary colouring,  but  most  of  them  secular  and 
sometimes  profane  in  both  senses.  I  daresay 
the  original  aim  of  the  Oiel  Verree  was  to 
deepen  the  spiritual  life  of  the  people  by  means 
of  the  only  old  poetic  literature  the  island  pos- 
sessed, but  in  my  early  days  it  was  made  an 

25 


MY    STORY 

excuse  for  scenes  tliat  were  often  more  amus- 
ing than  reverential. 

We  all  took  candles  to  church,  I  remember, 
and  held  them  lighted  in  our  hands,  as  we  sat 
in  the  pews,  while  the  carol  singers,  generally 
two  abreast,  walked  down  the  central  "  aisle," 
beginning  at  the  porch  and  facing  the  altar, 
and  taking  a  step  forward  at  the  conclusion  of 
every  verse.  The  carols  most  in  favour  were 
those  that  gave  the  raciest  paraphrase  of  in- 
cidents in  the  Old  Testament,  and  one  that  con- 
sisted of  a  running  commentary  on  all  the  bad 
women  in  the  Bible  was  especially  popular. 
By  way  of  punctuating  the  points  of  such  pro- 
ductions we  threw  dried  peas  and  sometimes 
our  candles  at  the  performers,  with  results  that 
were  not  always  an  honour  to  the  parish 
church.  Naturally,  the  clergy  were  not  usually 
favourable  to  the  annual  service,  as  it  used  to 
be  performed,  and  being  powerless  to  abolish 
a  time-honoured  custom,  they  made  many  an- 
gry protests.  I  remember  one  such  protest 
that  came  like  a  boomerang  when  it  was  aimed 
at  a  half-witted  carval  singer,  named  Billy 
Corkill.  Old  Billy  and  I  were  going  to  Oiel 
Verree  when  he  met  the  parson,  a  testy  person, 
coming  out  of  the  church. 

"  Mind    you    behave    yourselves    to-night," 

26 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    THE    ISLE    OF   MAN 

said  the  parson,  "  and  don't  turn  my  church 
into  a  bear  garden." 

"  The  church  is  the  people's,  I'm  thinkin'," 
said  Billy. 

"  The  people  are  as  impudent  as  goats,"  said 
the  parson,  whereupon  Billy,  without  turning 
a  hair,  quietly  replied : 

"  Aw,  well,  you  are  the  shepherd,  so  just 
make  sheeps  of  them." 

Such  was  the  life  of  the  Isle  of  Man  as  I  saw 
it  through  the  eyes  of  a  child,  and  I  trust  I 
have  reproduced  a  little  of  it  in  my  books,  with 
its  quaint  and  curious  customs,  its  simple  faith, 
its  terse  and  racy  speech.  We  were  cut  off 
from  the  mainland  by  thirty  miles  of  sea  on 
every  side,  and  though  a  steamer  sailed  to  Liv- 
erpool every  day  it  was  hardly  once  in  a  life- 
time that  any  of  our  country  people  left  our 
shores  unless  perchance  they  were  leaving 
them  for  good.  In  the  remoter  parishes  there 
was  no  postman,  and  when  letters  came  for 
us  they  were  put  up  in  the  windows  of  the  post- 
office  in  the  village  to  be  seen  and  called  for. 
We  had  one  or  two  insular  newspapers,  but  the 
farmers  rarely  read  them,  and  those  who  did 
so  learned  little  or  nothing  of  the  things  going 
on  in  the  world  outside.  There  were  no  rail- 
ways in  the  island  then,  and  when  we  travelled 

27 


MY    STOKY 

to  market  or  to  the  annual  fairs  of  our  four 
little  towns  it  was  either  afoot  or  on  the  jolt- 
ing cross-board  of  the  springless  cart. 

Naturally,  there  was  another  side  to  the  life 
of  the  Isle  of  Man;  there  was  the  life  of  the 
towns,  of  Douglas,  with  its  ten  thousand  inhab- 
itants and  its  visiting  industry  already  begun; 
of  Castletown,  technically  our  capital  and  still, 
I  think,  the  seat  of  our  Government;  of  Ram- 
sey, the  asylum  of  many  half -pay  officers  liv- 
ing cheap  on  our  low  customs  and  small  rents ; 
and  of  Peel,  the  home  of  the  fishing  trade  with 
its  fleet  of  some  hundreds  of  small  "  Nickeys  " 
and  big  boats.  Then  there  was  the  life  of  our 
landed  gentry,  very  clannish  and  exclusive,  of 
our  college  professors,  remote  and  austere,  as 
well  as  the  parsons,  often  very  sweet  old  souls 
who  acted  as  intermediaries  between  us  and 
the  people  above,  especially  the  Lord  Bishop, 
our  neighbour  at  Bishop's  Court,  who  was 
driven  in  a  carriage  with  two  high-stepping 
horses  by  an  English  coachman  in  livery,  and 
was  talked  of  with  bated  breath.  But  this  was 
a  higher  side  of  the  insular  life  which  in  those 
days  I  knew  little  or  nothing  about,  and  if  the 
loss  was  mine  in  many  ways  I  do  not  regret  it 
too  bitterly  since  it  left  me  in  close  touch  with 
the  soil,  with  the  simple  lives  of  a  simple  peo- 

28 


iSi 


( i 


*— 


^f 


-/J 


o 

a 

H 

CO 

<: 

a" 

<; 

2 
a 

a 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    THE    ISLE    OF    MAN 

pie ;  and  to  have  been  brought  up  in  these  con- 
ditions was,  perhaps,  for  one  who  had  my  work 
to  do  in  later  life,  to  be  entered  in  the  best  if 
the  humblest  university  of  the  world.  So 
Manxland  is  my  alma  mater  after  all,  for  she 
has  taught  me  more  than  the  lore  of  her  own 
little  island,  and  when  I  set  myself  to  under- 
stand humanity  in  any  quarter  of  the  world, 
whether  it  is  among  the  Icelanders  on  the  edge 
of  the  Arctic  Circle,  or,  as  now  happens,  among 
the  Soudanese  on  the  verge  of  the  Equator,  I 
find  myself  going  back  in  memory  to  what  I 
learned  of  the  human  heart  in  the  days  when 
I  lay  in  bed  in  the  little  thatched  cottage  in 
Ballaugh,  with  the  sweet-smelling  "scraas" 
so  close  overhead,  listening  for  a  while,  before 
dropping  off  to  sleep,  through  the  floor  that 
had  no  ceiling  under  it,  to  the  voices  of  the 
people  who  were  talking  in  Manx  in  the  kitchen 
below. 


CHAPTER    II 

EARLY    DAYS    IN    LIVERPOOL 

ALTHOUGH  so  much  of  my  childhood  and 
boyhood  was  spent  in  the  Isle  of  Man, 
my  real  home,  the  home  of  my  parents, 
was  in  Liverpool.  My  father,  as  a  yomiger  son 
of  a  farmer  who  had  dissipated  the  little  he  in- 
herited, had  recognised  the  necessity  of  going 
farther  afield  for  a  livelihood,  and  crossing  to 
Liverpool  while  still  a  young  man  he  had  es- 
tablished himself  there  in  a  humble  way  of  life. 
If  I  were  writing  an  autobiography  in  the  ac- 
cepted sense  I  think  I  should  be  tempted  to  tell 
some  touching  stories  of  how  my  father,  as  a 
friendless  and  penniless  boy,  scrambled  and 
starved  himself  through  the  seven  long  years 
that  were  supposed  to  be  necessary  to  teach 
him  a  trade;  and  again,  after  he  had  married 
and  children  had  begun  to  come,  starved  and 
scraml)led,  or  at  least  pinched  and  deprived 
himself,  with  the  cheerful  co-operation  of  my 
mother,  through  the  years  in  which  I  and  my 

30 


EARLY    DAYS   IN   LIVERPOOL 

first  brother  and  sister  had  to  be  sent  to  school. 
The  world  went  well  with  him  in  later  days,  and 
his  children  of  a  younger  brood  knew  nothing 
of  his  privations,  but  it  is  not  for  me,  as  his 
eldest  son,  to  forget  the  stoical  unselfishness 
to  which  I  owe  so  much. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  life  of  the  Manx  people 
in  their  own  island  as  that  of  a  close  communi- 
ty, self-centred  and  conservative,  and  suffering 
in  various  ways  from  this  catlike  devotion  to 
home.  But  there  is  the  Gipsy  in  the  Manx  peo- 
ple, too,  and  no  lack  of  the  adventurous  spirit. 
Inheriting  something  from  their  Viking  an- 
cestors, Manxmen  are  good  colonists,  and  I 
think  there  is  no  remote  corner  of  the  world 
yet  visited  by  me  where  I  have  not  found  a 
Manxman  settled.  He  does  well  nearly  every- 
where, and  contentedly  adapts  himself  to  the 
country  that  becomes  his  foster  mother.  But 
he  never  forgets  his  natural  mother  for  all  that, 
and  whatever  the  greatness  and  grandeur  of 
the  country  he  lives  in,  he  always  clings  to  the 
belief  that  the  Isle  of  Man  is  the  most  beauti- 
ful and  desirable  place  in  the  world.  It  is  a 
touching  fact,  and  if  it  is  a  fallacy  it  is  not 
the  less  sweet  on  that  account.  Our  little  is- 
land is  a  lovely  place,  and  though  the  winds 
sweep  over  it  in  winter,  and  the  sea  that  sur- 

31 


MY    STOEY 

rounds  it  is  sometimes  terrible,  tliougli  there 
are  greater  and  grander  tilings  in  many  coun- 
tries, there  are  none  of  us  to  whom  it  is  not 
after  all  the  fairest  spot  the  sun  shines  upon. 
But,  whatever  it  is,  it  is  our  mother,  and  just 
as  blood  calls  to  blood,  though  it  may  be  over 
many  generations,  so  across  the  countries 
which  separate  him  from  his  home  there  is  al- 
ways a  deep  call  to  the  Manxman's  heart  from 
the  soil  that  gave  him  birth. 

My  father  had  the  root  of  this  in  him 
through  all  the  years  of  his  exile  in  Liverpool, 
but  though  he  was  so  near  to  the  island  he  was 
rarely  able  to  go  back,  and  I  find  it  a  touching 
instance  of  the  call  of  blood  that  not  being  able 
to  go  himself  he  was  always  sending  me  for 
periods  long  or  short,  and  thus  in  a  second  gen- 
eration his  Manxness  expressed  itself  in  the 
end  by  the  return  of  his  family  to  his  native 
soil. 

But,  meanwhile,  it  was  in  Liverpool  for  the 
most  part  that  I  went  to  school,  and  there, 
while  I  was  still  a  very  young  boy,  I  started  in 
life.  I  was  something  of  an  adventurous  city 
Gipsy  myself  when  I  first  tramped  out  into  the 
world,  and  my  recollection  is  that  the  direction 
I  took  was  due  to  nothing  more  serious  than 
an  impression  that  I  could  draw  and  the  sight 

32 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    LIVERPOOL 

of  an  advertisement  asking  for  a  pupil  to  an 
architect.  The  architect  turned  out  to  be  a  re- 
mote member  of  the  Gladstone  family,  and 
through  him  I  came  into  casual  relations  with 
the  great  statesman.  It  must  have  been  in  the 
year  1868  that  I  saw  Gladstone  first,  for  I  have 
some  recollection  of  running  all  day  long,  on 
the  day  of  the  great  election,  to  his  brother's 
office  in  Union  Court,  with  telegrams  announc- 
ing the  results  of  the  contests  all  over  the  coun- 
try. I  see  him  as  he  was  then,  sitting  behind 
an  office  table,  a  tall  man  in  a  stiff-looking 
frock-coat  of  the  fashion  of  an  earlier  day,  with 
a  pale  face  and  side  whiskers  and  very  straight 
black  hair,  thin  on  the  crown  and  brushed  close 
across  his  forehead.  He  was  my  hero,  my  idol, 
my  demi-god,  in  those  days,  but  that  did  not 
prevent  my  blurting  out  the  big  news  of  great 
majorities  before  he  had  time  to  open  his  tele- 
grams, and  then  his  pale,  serious,  shadowed 
face,  almost  sad,  and  apparently  preoccupied, 
would  lighten  to  a  smile  that  was  like  sunshine. 
I  saw  Gladstone  again  a  little  later  when  he 
was  spending  a  few  days  on  his  property  at 
Seaforth  which  my  master  had  been  required 
to  survey.  The  surveyor-in-chief  had  not  ap- 
peared one  morning,  and  I,  the  smallest  of  boys 
of  fifteen,  acting  as  his  deputy,  was  ordering 

33 


MY    STOKY 

about  two  or  three  big  hulking  indolent  chain 
men,  when  the  statesman,  now  Prime  Minister 
and  paler  and  graver  than  ever,  came  out  of 
the  Vicarage  to  look  on.  I  could  see  that  he 
was  more  amused  than  I  was,  and  then  he 
came  up  to  me  and  asked  to  see  my  maps  and 
the  figures  in  my  survey  book,  and  I  remember 
that  I  gave  him  a  large  explanation  of  the 
peculiarities  of  his  estate  with  its  hedges  that 
ought  to  be  straightened  and  its  by-roads  that 
were  bad.  He  listened  quite  attentively  for  a 
considerable  time,  and  then,  not  having  made 
any  other  remark,  he  patted  me  on  the  top  of 
my  head — it  was  easy  to  do  so — and  said  I 
would  do  something  some  day. 

I  did  not  expect  him  to  remember  me,  but  I 
think  he  must  have  done  so,  for  quite  two  years 
afterward,  without  any  intervening  incident 
or  other  point  of  touch,  I  had  a  letter  from  the 
office  in  Union  Court  saying  that  his  brother 
wished  to  make  me  the  steward  of  the  Glad- 
stone estates  in  Lancashire.  I  was  sorely 
tempted  to  accept  the  offer,  for  Gladstone  was 
still  my  demi-god,  and  I  suppose  if  I  had  done 
so  the  whole  current  of  my  life  might  have 
been  different,  but  my  friends  advised  me  to 
decline,  having  by  this  time  conceived  an  idea 
that  I  had  the  makings  of  an  architect,  and 

34 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    LIVERPOOL 

that  business,  tlie  inevitable  adjunct  of  poli- 
tics, would  break  my  career. 

Their  expectations  were,  however,  in  no  way 
of  being  fulfilled,  for,  already,  books  had  called 
off  the  devotion  that  ought  to  have  been  given 
to  the  drawing  board  and  T-square,  and  I  was 
consuming  every  kind  of  literature  that  came 
my  way.  The  Free  Lil)rary  at  Liverpool  was 
my  great  hunting  ground  in  those  days,  and 
surely  no  young  reader  ever  ran  so  wild  in  a 
wilderness  of  books.  I  read  everything  with- 
out guidance  of  any  kind — poetry,  history, 
drama,  romance,  metaphysics,  theology — gal- 
loping through  all  at  equal  pace,  a  fresh  book 
about  every  other  day,  until  I  had  more  mis- 
cellaneous literature  on  the  top  of  my  head 
than  any  boy  I  have  ever  known  or  ever  wish 
to  know.  This  went  on  in  its  irregular  and 
scarcely  serviceable  way  for  several  years,  so 
that  in  later  life  I  seem  to  have  been  doing 
little  else  than  read  over  again,  I  trust  with  a 
more  tutored  mind,  a  few  of  the  books  I  read 
before  I  was  twenty  years  of  age. 

I  was  writing,  too  (I  can  hardly  recall  a  time 
when  I  did  not  write),  with  the  same  aimless 
and  unguided  ardour,  essays,  poems,  plays,  nov- 
els, and  histories — generally  histories  whereof 
facts  were  not  always  the  principal  factors. 

35 


MY    STORY 

There  was  the  "  scribbling  itch  "  in  all  this,  but 
I  cannot  remember  that  there  was  any  of  the 
publishing  mania,  for  as  soon  as  a  thing  was 
done  it  was  done  with,  and  it  found  its  way  to 
the  bottom  of  a  trunk.  Naturally,  a  desire  to 
enlighten  the  world  came  in  its  due  course,  and 
how  I  began  to  publish  is  another  story. 

From  my  earliest  school  days  I  had  had  a 
friend,  a  boy  of  Welsh  parentage,  whose  up- 
bringing had  been  not  unlike  my  own.  He  is 
dead  now,  but  he  lived  long  enough  to  hear 
that  Tolstoi  had  spoken  of  one  of  his  works 
as  "  the  best  example  of  modern  English  fic- 
tion," and  yet  his  beginnings  were  not  such  as 
might  lead  any  one  to  expect  that  he  would  be- 
come known  as  a  writer  of  books.  When  I  saw 
him  first  I  can  no  more  tell  than  one  could  say 
when  he  began  to  know  his  own  twin  brother. 
My  earliest  recollections  are  of  a  stiff-set  little 
chap  with  twinkling  eyes,  a  merry  laugh,  and 
two  round  cheeks  like  rosy  apples,  fond  of 
mimicry,  always  in  mischief,  often  in  disgrace, 
frequently  going  through  various  forms  of  pun- 
ishment, and  taking  his  drubbings  in  the  spirit 
of  one  who  thought  they  were  part  of  the  hu- 
mour of  daily  life. 

This  was  William  Tirebuck,  and  after  he, 
too,  had  left  school  and  launched  himself  in  the 

36 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    LIVERPOOL 

school  of  life,  going  through  all  manner  of  gro- 
tesque experiences  which  he  turned  to  high  ac- 
count in  later  life,  we  began,  he  and  I,  still  in 
our  teens,  to  unite  our  powerful  interest  in 
literature.  Our  activities  were  first  directed 
toward  the  establishment  of  a  monthly  manu- 
script magazine,  which  we  conducted  for  about 
two  months,  with  the  strenuous  assistance  of 
an  elder  and  more  staid-minded  sister  of  my 
friend.  AVhat  his  own  literary  qualifications 
were  at  that  moment  I  cannot  now  remember, 
except  that  he  wrote  a  clear  and  rapid  hand, 
and  that  he  was  always  ready  to  put  this  good 
and  gracious  gift  at  the  service  of  his  chief 
contributor.  My  recollection  is  that  my  friend 
played  the  parts  of  editor,  printer,  publisher, 
and  postman,  while  I  charged  myself  with  the 
duties  of  principal  author.  Of  course  ours  was 
a  serious  publication,  and  if  it  is  anywhere 
still  extant  it  may  at  least  be  of  interest  as 
the  first  book  of  two  budding  collaborators, 
who  at  sixteen  and  seventeen,  respectively,  un- 
dertook, each  in  his  own  way,  to  settle  for  a 
select  circle  the  problems  of  the  universe. 

Then  came  an  event  of  immense  consequence 
to  both  of  us.    One  of  the  contril)utors  to  our 
manuscript   magazine   inherited    a    small   for- 
tune, and,  by  what  means  I  cannot  say,  came 
4  37 


Xb 


MY    STORY 

into  control  of  it  while  he  was  still  a  boy.  That 
was  bad  for  the  fortune  and  not  good  for 
the  boy,  but  it  was  decidedly  stimulating  to 
our  literary  ambitions.  The  first  thing  we  did 
was  to  print  our  magazine.  We  only  printed 
it  once,  I  remember,  but  I  think  the  publication 
must  have  been  quite  alone  of  its  kind.  It  con- 
sisted chiefly  or  entirely  of  a  very  long  blank- 
verse  poem  written  by  me,  and  a  glowing  ap- 
preciation of  it  written  by  my  friend.  I  believe 
we  struck  off  ten  thousand,  but  I  never  heard 
of  anybody  buying  a  copy.  Nobody  has  ever 
told  me  that  he  has  seen  that  poem,  and  I  doubt 
if  anybody  ever  will. 

Thus  our  first  free  plunge  into  literature 
proved  to  l)e  a  plunge  into  hot  water,  and  when 
the  fortunes  of  our  boy  capitalist  were  finally 
submerged,  my  friend  put  on  the  life  belt  of 
sober  sense  for  a  time  and  swam  back  to  com- 
merce, his  place  as  junior  clerk  in  a  merchant's 
office,  while  I,  with  less  wisdom,  threw  up  my 
architecture  at  the  first  hint  of  one  of  the  ner- 
vous attacks  which  even  then  beset  me,  and  re- 
turned to  the  Isle  of  Man.  This  time  I  went  to 
another  uncle,  in  another  part  of  the  island,  a 
schoolmaster,  and  a  man  of  some  culture,  who 
comforted  my  father  and  mother,  after  I  had 
gone   through   many    jDarental    scoldings    and 

38 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    LIVERPOOL 

been  the  cause  of  many  parental  tears,  by  giv- 
ing it  as  his  opinion  that  if  the  worst  came  to 
the  worst  I  might  some  day  be  able  to  make  a 
living  by  my  pen. 

No  such  material  consideration,  however, 
had  any  influence  with  me  then,  and  I  was  fully 
content  to  teach  in  the  schoolhouse  four  or  five 
hours  a  day,  if  only  during  the  rest  of  my  time 
I  could  be  allowed  to  do  what  I  liked.  What  I 
liked  just  then  was  to  write  anonymous  and 
gratuitous  articles  for  one  of  the  little  Manx 
newspapers  on  religious  and  economic  ques- 
tions of  the  largest  conceivable  range.  That 
was  the  moment  when  Ruskin  started  his 
"  Guild  of  St.  George,"  and  rumours  came  to  us 
of  undergraduates  digging  the  ground  outside 
Oxford  in  pursuance  of  the  principles  which 
the  master  was  propounding  in  his  "  Fors 
Clavigera."  It  was  at  this  fire  I  lighted  my 
torch,  and  for  many  months  I  went  on  writing 
denunciations  of  the  social  system  and  of  the 
accepted  interpretation  of  the  Christian  faith. 
Thus  I  was  a  Christian  socialist  a  good  many 
years  before  the  name  was  known,  and  per- 
haps something  of  a  New  Theologian  also. 
That  my  articles  affected  me  profoundly  I  was 
perfectly  sure,  that  they  perplexed  my  uncle 
I  had  some  grounds  to  fear,  but  that  they  made 

39 


MY    STORY 

so  much  as  a  ripple  on  the  placid  surface  of 
Manx  life  I  had  no  reason  to  believe.  No  rea- 
son, at  least,  except  one,  the  fact  that  a  hu- 
morous clergyman,  who  must  have  got  a 
"  scoot "  into  my  anonymity,  and  discovered 
the  compromising  name  of  the  boyish  scrib- 
bler who  was  undertaking  the  defence  of  the 
rights  of  man,  preached  a  sermon  by  way  of 
reply  to  my  socialism  on  the  text,  "  Am  I  my 
brother's  keeper? " 

Meantime  mv  uncle  died,  and  in  some  in- 
formal  way  I  took  up  his  place  as  schoolmas- 
ter, with  all  the  extraneous  duties  that  per- 
tained to  it,  such  as  the  making  of  wills  for 
farmers  round  about,  the  drafting  of  agree- 
ments and  leases,  the  writing  of  messages  to 
banks  protesting  against  crushing  interest, 
and  occasionally  the  inditing  of  love  letters  for 
young  farm  hands  to  their  girls  in  service  on 
farms  that  were  far  away.  It  was  all  grist 
that  came  to  my  mill,  and  it  never  troubled  me 
a  ha'po'th  that  I  got  "nothing  out  of  any- 
thing," not  even  my  schoolmastering,  which 
was  not  all  cakes  and  ale. 

The  schoolhouse  was  a  quaint-looking  struc- 
ture that  stood  alone  like  a  lighthouse  on  the 
bleakest  of  the  Manx  headlands,  Kirk  Maug- 
hold   Head,   and   the   wind   in  winter   swirled 

40 


■  ■/  ^■'V^ 


o 


72 


EARLY    DAYS    IN    LIVERPOOL 

round  it  and  lashed  it  as  with  a  knout,  and 
once  a  seagull,  driven  helpless  before  the  fury 
of  a  storm,  came  crashing  through  a  window- 
pane.  Sometimes  we  had  to  tie  a  rope  from  the 
door  of  the  dwelling-house  to  the  door  of  the 
school  that  I  might  shoulder  my  way  round  by 
the  walls  without  being  swept  off  my  feet,  and 
sometimes  we  saw  the  children,  who  came  from 
the  farms  in  the  valleys  on  either  side,  with 
laughter  and  shrill  cries,  creeping  up  to  our 
aerie  on  hands  and  knees.  It  was  a  stem  sort 
of  schooling  for  all  of  us,  but  I  think  we  came 
through  it  to  our  mutual  content,  though  the 
children  taught  me  more  than  I  was  able  to 
teach  them,  and  I  have  since  put  some  of  them 
into  my  books. 

I  must  have  been  there  for  the  better  part 
of  a  year,  and  during  that  time  the  little  school- 
master was  in  his  way  a  sort  of  centre  of  in- 
tellectual life.  For  the  dark  nights  we  got  up 
penny  readings  and  debates,  and  perhaps  if  it 
were  quite  worth  while  I  could  tell  of  won- 
drous speeches  by  my  friend  Billy  Corkill  and 
others  on  such  perilous  subjects  as  "  Early  or 
late  marriage — which  is  best  ?  "  It  was  not  all 
of  our  Manx  folk  who  could  shine  in  debate, 
but  it  was  astonishing  how  many  attempted  to 
practise  it,  and  I  recall  with  a  pang  some  of 

41 


MY    STORY 

the  efforts  of  my  neighbours  at  public  speaking 
on  delicate  questions,  for  they  were  tragically 
outspoken  as  orators. 

But  this,  too,  was  all  grist  to  my  mill,  being 
a  sort  of  puljlic  confessional  to  which  I  had  be- 
guiled my  unsuspecting  countrymen,  though 
there  was  a  side  of  my  own  life  which  they 
could  not  share.  That  was  the  side  that  con- 
cerned books,  other  books  than  they  kept  on 
the  "lath"  (the  ceiling  shelf  in  the  kitchen), 
the  Bible  and  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and 
"  Clarke's  Commentary,"  and  "  The  Land  and 
the  Book " — books  that  might  have  shocked 
that  Puritan  sense  which  they  did  not  yet  Imow 
as  "  the  Nonconformist  conscience,"  books  of 
poetry  and  even  fiction,  or  perhaps  drama, 
whose  authors  (as  an  unforgiving  Manx  Meth- 
odist afterward  said  of  me)  "  made  their  liv- 
ing by  telling  lies." 

One  such  book  whereof  rumour  came  to  me  in 
those  days  was  the  first  of  Rossetti's  volumes 
of  poems,  just  published,  and  being  greatly  re- 
viewed, but  I  recall  no  more  of  the  impression 
it  made  upon  me  than  the  effect  of  the  tragic 
story  of  how  the  original  manuscript  had  been 
buried  with  the  coffin  of  the  poet's  wife,  and 
then  exhumed  after  lying  seven  years  in  the 
grave.    I  remember  that  a  thrill  came  first  with 

42 


EARLY   DAYS   IN   LIVERPOOL 

that  story,  and  then,  close  ])ehind  it,  a  certain 
sense  of  outrage,  as  if  the  grace  of  great  re- 
nunciation had  been  finally  thrown  away. 

Such  was  my  first  point  of  touch  with  a  man 
whose  friendship  was  in  later  years  to  play  so 
large  a  part  in  my  life;  such,  too,  were  my 
scene  and  my  interests  when  one  day  a  letter 
came  to  me  on  my  bleak  headland  that  sent 
me  back  to  Liverpool  within  a  week.  It  was 
from  my  master,  the  architect,  and  it  said: 

"Why  on  earth  are  you  wasting  your  life 
over  there?  Come  back  to  your  proper  work 
at  once." 

I  had  certainly  run  away  without  completing 
my  apprenticeship,  but  I  really  believe  he  was 
one  of  those  who  cherished  the  delusion  that 
I  might  become  a  great  architect. 


CHAPTEE   III 

MY    FIRST    LITEEARY    FRIENDS 

THE  only  terms  I  attempted  to  make  with 
the  expectations  of  my  friends  were  those 
of  writing  articles  on  architectural  sub- 
jects for  the  professional  journals.  This  I  be- 
gan to  do  immediately  after  my  return  to  Liver- 
pool, and  kept  it  up  for  a  considerable  period, 
so  that  stowed  away  somewhere  in  The  Builder 
and  The  Building  News  there  must  be  a 
number  of  essays  in  architectural  criticism 
written  by  me  in  my  youthful  days  at  the  draw- 
ing-board. They  were  distinctly  transcen- 
dental, I  remember,  and  never  very  practical, 
and  this  was  probably  the  reason  my  inexpe- 
rience was  not  detected. 

It  was  about  the  time  when  Ruskin  was  quite 
rightly  raising  a  loud  outcry  against  the  res- 
toration of  ancient  buildings,  and  my  articles 
were,  I  think,  for  the  most  part  intended  to 
support  him  in  his  propaganda.  I  know  they 
were  written  in  a  style  that  was  a  far-away 

44 


MY    FIRST    LITERARY    FRIENDS 

imitation  of  the  great  critic's  earlier  manner, 
being  very  florid,  even  flamboyant,  full  of  pas- 
sionate appeals  for  the  reverent  treatment  of 
decaying  monuments,  and  fierce  denunciations 
of  the  great  people  who  were  then  falsifying 
history  as  it  was  written  in  our  stones.  My 
articles  were  sincere  enough,  I  think,  and, 
thanks  to  their  model,  they  were  not  too  mani- 
festly immature,  for  Ruskin  himself  took  no- 
tice of  them  and  wrote  to  me  more  than  once 
in  words  of  sufficient  encouragement.  His  let- 
ters, if  I  could  find  them  all,  would,  I  think,  be 
interesting  for  what  they  reveal  of  the  man, 
apart  from  his  subject,  for  they  were  written 
at  that  period  of  storm  and  stress  when  his 
tempestuous  brain  was  swinging  to  and  fro, 
before  it  finally  went  down  to  that  still  and 
vacant  air  in  which  it  lingered  so  long.  In  one 
of  them,  which  I  have  recovered,  Ruskin 
speaks  of  "  a  bad  fit  of  weariness,  not  to 
say  worse,"  which  has  kept  him  from  ful- 
filling Some  promise  he  had  made  me,  and 
adds,  "  I  am  sincerely  glad  and  grateful  for 
all  you  tell  me  of  your  work."  In  another  he 
says: 

"  I  have  of  course  the  deepest  interest  in 
your  work — and  for  that  reason  must  keep 
wholly  out  of  it. 

45 


MY    STOEY 

"  I  should  drive  myself  mad  again  in  a  week 
if  I  thought  of  such  things. 

"  I  am  doing  botany  and  geology,  and  you, 
who  are  able  for  it,  must  fight  with  rascals  and 
fools.    I  will  be  no  more  plagued  by  them." 

Again,  apparently  on  the  same  subject,  he 
says: 

"  I  am  entirely  hopeless  of  any  good  what- 
ever against  these  devilish  modern  powers  and 
fashions.    My  words  choke  me  if  I  try  to  speak. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  Liverpool,  and  what  can 
I  say  there,  but  that  it  has  first  to  look  after 
its  poor,  and  the  churches  will  take  care  of 
themselves." 

I  remember  that  I  had  other  letters  from 
Euskin  at  this  period,  some  of  them  written 
from  Coniston,  and  some  from  Venice  in  the 
full  l)last  of  the  torrential  wrath  in  which  his 
great  brain  finally  disappeared;  but  the  most 
immediate,  if  not  the  most  practical,  reward  I 
received  for  my  articles  came  to  me  from  an- 
other source.  The  editor  of  one  of  my  archi- 
tectural journals,  George  Godwin,  I  think, 
wrote  to  say  that  he  would  be  glad  if  I  would 
go  up  to  see  him  in  London. 

The  perturbation  created  by  this  message 
was  increased  by  the  rumour,  whispered  to  me 
by  an  architect  friend,  that  Godwin,  who  was 

46 


MY    FIRST    LITERARY    FRIENDS 

growing  old,  was  on  the  lookout  for  an  assist- 
ant editor,  who  might  perhaps  succeed  him 
some  day  at  the  office  of  The  Builder.  The 
prospect  was  glorious,  but  there  was  a  lion  in 
the  way,  and  no  one  could  be  so  much  in  fear 
of  it  as  myself.  It  was  before  the  days  when 
men  were  "  too  old  at  forty,"  and  I  had  David 
Copperfield's  dread  of  being  too  young.  I  had 
suffered  from  that  malady  for  a  considerable 
time,  and  as  often  as  I  had  had  to  tell  my  age 
I  had  inwardly  asked  forgiveness  and  then 
added  a  year  to  it,  being  only  restrained  from 
adding  more  by  the  certainty  that  my  face, 
which  was  ridiculously  youthful,  would  betray 
and  convict  me. 

I  obeyed  the  editor's  order,  and  went  up  to 
see  him  at  his  private  house  in  London,  but  I 
shall  never  forget  my  miserable  sense  of  being 
so  young  when  I  was  shown  into  a  drawing- 
room  full  of  historic  chairs,  or  the  shiver  that 
passed  over  me  as  the  old  man  entered  and 
looked  at  me  for  the  first  time.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  for  a  moment  his  eyes  were  starting 
out  of  his  head,  and  he  was  asking  himself  if 
it  could  be  possible  that  he  had  inflicted  upon 
the  mature  readers  of  his  staid  editorial  col- 
umns the  effusions  of  this  boy  who  was  not 
much  more  to  look  at  than  a  girl. 

47 


MY    STORY 

Fortunately  for  himself  tlie  editor  did  not 
ask  me  to  become  his  assistant  editor,  and  per- 
haps that  (after  the  breakdown  of  the  Glad- 
stone stewardship)  was  the  luckiest  chance, 
and  the  narrowest  escape,  that  ever  happened 
to  me  in  my  life.  In  the  making  of  imaginative 
literature  it  is  the  rolling  stone  that  gathers  the 
moss,  and  my  stone  was  not  yet  done  rolling. 

Partly  from  the  failure  of  faith  in  myself  as 
a  draughtsman,  and  partly  from  a  desire  to  be 
moving  on,  I  left  my  architect  and  became  as- 
sistant to  a  builder.  That  was  for  me  the  best 
move  I  had  yet  made,  though  I  remember  with 
a  certain  shame  that  it  must  have  been  con- 
siderably less  advantageous  to  my  employer, 
for  my  new  employment  fostered  my  literary 
activity  after  a  fashion  that  could  hardly  have 
been  contemplated  by  my  indulgent  chief. 
Making  no  particular  demand  on  my  intellect, 
it  left  me  free  to  read  more  and  more  books 
of  many  sorts,  and  to  write  stories  and  dramas 
and  essays  and  articles.  I  remember  that  I 
had  a  snug  little  office  to  myself  in  which  I  did 
these  things  for  several  years,  while  all  the 
time  my  face  bore  an  expression  of  intense  ab- 
sorption in  the  affairs  of  the  building  trade. 
The  literary  conscience  in  its  early  manifesta- 
tions is  an  elastic  conscience. 

48 


MY    FIRST    LITERARY    FRIENDS 

My  building  employment  brought  me  some- 
thing even  better  than  leisure  for  my  amateur 
literary  efforts — it  put  me  into  touch  with  men. 
I  was  in  daily  communication  with  one  or  two 
hundred  of  them  of  various  trades  and  classes 
for  at  least  five  years,  so  it  was  my  own 
fault  if  I  did  not  learn  something  of  the  work- 
ing man.  I  learned  a  good  deal  about  him, 
both  on  his  good  side  and  his  bad  side,  about 
his  thrift  and  his  improvidence,  his  industry 
and  his  malingering,  his  frequent  self-sacrifice 
for  his  family  and  his  drunken  indifference  to 
the  cries  of  his  children,  his  simple  natural 
manners,  as  of  a  born  gentleman,  and  his  fre- 
quent foulness  of  speech,  as  of  a  low  brute. 
It  would  not  be  entirely  safe  to  say  that  what 
I  saw  of  the  working  man  at  close  quarters  did 
not  tend  to  modify  the  more  uncompromising 
side  of  mv  militant  socialism,  but  better  than 
any  knowledge  which  my  building  experience 
brought  me  of  the  working  man,  as  such,  was 
the  daily  sight  of  the  inside  of  life  which  came 
by  giving  "  subs  "  to  meet  the  expenses  of  sick- 
ness at  home  that  was  sometimes  real  and 
sometimes  imaginary,  and  even  of  funerals 
which  were  occasionally  faked.  Like  my  Manx 
experience,  it  was  all  grist  to  my  mill,  and  I 
was  unconsciously  filling  a  big  granary  which 

49 


MY    STORY 

I  have  never  since  been  able  to  empty,  though 
I  have  made  calls  upon  it  many  times. 

Meantime,  with  the  help  of  friend  Tirebuck 
and  others,  I  was  making  various  grandiose 
efforts  in  Liverpool,  and  one  of  these  was  an 
effort  to  establish  a  branch  of  the  Shakespeare 
Society,  the  Ruskin  Society,  and  the  Society 
for  the  Protection  of  Ancient  Buildings,  all 
rolled  into  one.  We  called  our  own  organisa- 
tion "  Notes  and  Queries  Society,"  held  our 
meetings  at  the  local  Royal  Institution,  and  in- 
vited public  men  to  discourse  to  us  in  person 
or  by  proxy.  The  "  Notes  "  were  often  pro- 
vided by  persons  of  no  less  distinction  than 
Ruskin  and  William  Morris,  but  the  only 
"  Queries "  I  can  remember  came  from  our 
landlords,  and  concerned  the  subject  of  rent. 
Henry  Irving,  then  a  yoimg  man  in  the  first 
flush  of  his  success,  came  to  us  on  one  occasion 
to  defend  what  was  called  his  "  craven  "  view 
of  "  Macbeth,"  and  I  remember  that  much  to  his 
amusement  a  rugged  Unitarian  minister,  who 
had  been,  I  think,  a  postman,  dressed  him  down 
as  if  he  had  been  a  naughty  boy  who  required 
the  cane  of  a  schoolmaster. 

The  local  dignitaries  gave  us  occasionally 
the  light  of  their  countenance.  Philip  Rath- 
bone    told   us    stark   naked    truths    about   the 

50 


MY    FIRST    LITERxVRY    FRIENDS 

"  nude  in  art,"  and  Edward  Russell  read  to  us, 
I  think,  one  of  his  masterly  essays  on  Shake- 
speare. There  were,  too,  a  good  many  young 
Liverpool  men  in  the  enterprise,  and  though 
"  Notes  and  Queries "  eventually  subsided,  a 
few  of  us  emerged.  One  became  known  to  the 
public  as  a  poet  (I  think  a  great  one),  another 
as  a  politician,  a  third  as  a  preacher,  and  two 
of  us  as  writers  of  tales. 

I  was  in  my  early  twenties  by  this  time,  and 
in  spite  of  many  discouragements  life  was  full 
of  great  dreams.  Among  them  was  one  which 
brought  me  back  to  the  great  writer  and 
painter,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  who  was  to 
fill  so  large  a  space  in  my  succeeding  years. 
Through  a  member  of  our  society,  a  journalist 
of  much  ability,  Ashcroft  Noble,  I  came  to 
know  a  young  poet  who  has  since  attained  to 
a  high  and  well-deserved  renown.  He  was  a 
boy  of  seventeen  or  eighteen  at  that  time,  very 
slight  and  pale,  very  modest  and  reticent,  and 
reminding  us  constantly  of  Keats,  not  alone  by 
his  spiritual  gifts,  but  also  his  physical  in- 
firmities, for  he  was  very  delicate  then,  and  we 
feared  he  would  die  of  decline.  This  was  "Will- 
iam Watson,  the  son  of  a  merchant  in  Liver- 
pool, and  he  had  written  a  long  romantic  poem 
which  we  believed  to  be  full  of  genius.    I  re- 

51 


liY   STORY 

member  that  unlike  the  rest  of  us  he  had  never 
been  to  business,  and  that  his  father,  partly 
out  of  regard  for  his  health,  and  partly,  I 
think,  on  the  recommendation  of  Edward  Dow- 
den,  of  Dublin  University,  had  left  him  free  to 
follow,  if  he  wished  to  do  so,  the  profession  of 
literature. 

Both  Watson  and  Noble  were  at  that  period 
enthusiastic  admirers  of  Eossetti,  both  as  a 
poet  and  as  a  painter,  and  through  them  I  re- 
vived my  interest  in  the  subject  of  the  grim 
story  of  the  buried  book  which  had  so  deeply 
impressed  me  in  the  Isle  of  Man.  I  heard 
of  Eossetti  through  other  channels  also,  for 
through  "  Notes  and  Queries  "  I  had  come  to 
know  Hawthorne's  friend,  H.  A.  Bright,  and 
through  him  the  late  Lord  Houghton. 

I  remember  Bright  as  a  frail,  sensitive  man 
with  eager  eyes,  who  read  aloud  to  me  with  the 
appearance  of  one  who  is  passing  delicious 
wine  over  his  palate,  the  choicest  passages 
from  Hawthorne's  letters;  and  I  recall  Lord 
Houghton  chiefly  by  his  story  of  how  he  came 
to  write  his  life  of  Keats.  When  very  young 
(he  was  then  very  old)  he  had  set  off  for  Italy 
in  order  to  work  up  material  for  a  life  of  Shel- 
ley, and,  putting  up  for  a  day  or  two  at  Flor- 
ence, he  had  called  on  Walter  Savage  Landor. 

52 


MY    FIRST    LITERARY    FRIENDS 

Landor,  for  some  reason,  threw  cold  water 
on  Houghton's  enthusiasm,  and  then  said: 

"  But  a  young  fellow  named  Keats  died  at 
Rome  a  while  ago,  and  he  was  a  real  poet — 
why  not  get  up  a  life  of  himl " 

Bright  had  known  something  of  Rossetti, 
and  in  reply  to  my  eager  questioning,  which 
was  not  to  be  satisfied  without  personal  de- 
tails, he  told  me  that  the  poet  was  a  little  dark 
man  with  fine  eyes  under  a  broad  brow — a  little 
Italian,  in  short.  I  think  it  was  Lord  Hough- 
ton who  said  Rossetti,  in  the  days  when  he  used 
to  meet  him  (probably  at  Mrs.  Gaskell's),  was 
a  young  fellow  of  strong  Bohemian  habits 
(meaning  thereby,  I  presumed,  a  certain  ten- 
dency to  recklessness  or  even  indecorum), 
known  at  that  time  principally  as  a  painter 
and  the  leader  of  an  eccentric  school  of  art, 
but  also  as  a  poet  whose  poems,  not  yet  pub- 
lished as  a  whole,  were  much  belauded  by  a 
narrow  circle  in  which  they  passed  from  hand 
to  hand. 

I  also  recall,  as  one  of  the  fountains  from 
which  I  quenched  my  thirst  for  any  sort  of 
ana  relating  to  Rossetti,  that  on  a  holiday  in 
the  Lake  Country  I  met  a  stranger  whom  I 
thought  I  recognised  as  the  author  of  "  Fes- 
tus,"  and  that  with  much  akin  to  the  foregoing 
5  53 


MY   STORY 

I  also  heard  from  liim  that  in  his  young  man- 
hood the  poet's  manners  had  been,  to  say  the 
least,  robustious,  suggesting  a  person  in  de- 
liberate revolt  against  nearly  all  the  conven- 
tions of  society,  and  delighting,  if  only  out  of 
perversity  or  for  devilish  amusement,  in  every 
opportunity  to  startle  well-ordered  people  out 
of  their  propriety  by  championing  the  worst 
view  of  Neronian  Rome,  and  to  silence  by  sheer 
vehemence  of  denunciation  the  seemly  protests 
of  very  good  and  very  gentle  folk. 

But  more  arresting  because  obviously  of 
more  serious  import  than  such  pictures  of  the 
excesses  of  a  vigorous  physical  and  intellectual 
youth,  were  the  slight  peeps  I  was  able  to  get 
from  Bright,  Houghton,  and  others  of  the  life 
the  poet  lived  then.  It  appeared  that  Rossetti 
had  long  been  living  in  the  strictest  seclusion 
in  a  large  house  in  Chelsea,  which  had  once 
been  the  home  of  the  Princess  Elizabeth;  that 
neither  the  literary  nor  the  artistic  society  of 
London  saw  .anything  of  him;  that  his  face 
was  unknown  to  the  pictorial  newspapers,  and 
unfamiliar  to  his  contemporaries  in  either  of 
the  two  arts  in  which  he  was  naw  illustrious; 
that  outside  a  close  and  very  limited  circle  he 
was  as  one  who  was  dead  and  buried,  save  for 
the  splendid  achievements  in  poetry  and  paint- 

54 


MY   FIRST   LITERARY   FRIENDS 

ing  which  emerged  at  intervals  from  the  sealed 
doors  of  his  tomb. 

It  was  natural  that  al)out  an  existence  so 
shrouded  by  mystery  various  myths  should 
have  gathered,  and  in  reply  to  my  questioning 
I  received  a  number  of  fragmentary  romances, 
some  of  them  having,  as  I  now  see,  a  certain 
substratum  of  truth.  Thus  I  was  told  that 
Rossetti's  seclusion  had  been  due  to  the  shock 
occasioned  by  the  death  of  his  wife,  and  again 
to  the  remorse  that  had  followed  on  having  al- 
lowed himself  to  exhume  her  body  for  the  re- 
covery of  the  manuscripts  which  he  had  buried 
in  her  grave,  and  yet  again  to  the  distress  and 
sense  of  degradation  which  had  resulted  upon 
the  adverse  criticism  of  a  brother  poet,  taken 
up  by  a  whole  pack  of  critical  hounds  in  full 
cry. 

Such  were  the  portraits  of  Rossetti  with 
which  I  fed  my  curiosity  in  those  early  days  in 
Liverpool,  and  the  first  outcome  of  my  enthusi- 
asm was  a  lecture  which  I  delivered  at  the  local 
Free  Library,  when,  "  Notes  and  Queries  "  hav- 
ing subsided,  the  rolling  stone  was  once  more 
moving  on.  The  text  of  that  lecture  I  have 
long  ago  lost,  but  as  it  probably  gave  birth  to 
the  friendship  which  it  will  be  my  duty  and 
pleasure  to  describe,  I  shall  perhaps  be  doing 

55 


MY    STORY 

well  to  trust  to  my  memory  in  an  effort  to  indi- 
cate its  drift. 

I  do  not  remember  to  have  said  anything 
about  Rossetti  the  man,  though  that  might 
have  been  a  promising  theme  for  a  popular 
audience,  neither  did  I  attempt  to  tell  the  story 
of  the  origin  and  publication  of  his  books,  but 
I  gave  a  narrative  account  of  the  stories  of 
his  greater  poems,  and  then  wound  up  with  an 
abstract  analysis  of  the  impulses  animating  his 
work.  In  this  analysis  I  argued  that  to  place 
Rossetti  among  the  "  aesthetic  "  poets  was  an 
error  of  classification;  that  he  had  nothing  in 
common  with  the  Caliban  of  Browning,  who 
worked  "  for  work's  sole  sake  " ;  that  the  top- 
most thing  in  him  was  indeed  love  of  beauty, 
but  the  deepest  thing  was  love  of  truth,  often 
plain  and  uncomely  truth;  that  the  fusion  of 
these  two  passions  had  at  the  same  time  soft- 
ened the  Italian  Catholic,  which  I  recognised 
as  a  leading  element  in  him,  and  purified  the 
Italian  troubadour;  that  while  he  was  too  true 
an  artist  to  follow  art  into  its  by-ways  of 
moral  significance  and  so  cripple  its  broader 
aims,  the  absorption  of  the  artist  in  his  art 
seemed  always  to  live  and  work  together  with 
the  personal  instincts  of  the  man;  that  to  do 
good  on  other  grounds  was  in  Rossetti's  art 

56 


MY    FIRST    LITERARY    FRIENDS 

involved  and  inehided  in  l)eing  good  on  its 
own;  that  the  manner  of  doing  a  thing  could 
never  be  more  than  the  part  of  a  thing  done, 
and  that  the  most  unmoral  of  all  poetry,  Poe's 
for  example,  involved  many  meanings,  pur- 
poses, and  results;  that  Rossetti's  poetry 
showed  how  possible  it  w^as,  without  making 
conscious  compromise  with  that  Puritan  prin- 
ciple of  *'  doing  good  "  of  which  Keats  had  been 
enamoured,  to  be  unconsciously  making  for 
moral  ends;  and  finally  that  there  was  a  pas- 
sive Puritanism  in  "  Jenny "  and  in  the  most 
ardent  of  the  sonnets  which  lived  and  worked 
together  with  the  poet's  artistic  passion  for 
doing  his  work  supremely  well. 

I  cannot  but  smile  when  I  cast  my  mind  back 
some  thirty  years  and  think  of  myself  as  a 
young  fellow  of  five-and-twenty,  full  to  the 
throat  of  the  last  phrase,  not  to  say  the  last 
jargon,  of  the  "higher"  literary  criticism, 
pouring  out  its  abstract  theories  to  an  audience 
consisting  chiefly  of  working  men  and  women, 
who  listened  to  me,  I  remember,  in  the  most 
indulgent  silence.  But  sure  I  am  that  some 
kindly  Fate  must  have  been  directing  my  in- 
congruous efforts,  for  knowing  Rossetti's  na- 
ture as  I  afterward  learned  to  know  it,  I  see 
that   such   pleading   for   the   moral   influences 

57 


MY    STORY 

animating  his  work  was  of  all  things  most 
likely  to  enlist  his  sympathy  and  engage  his 
affections.  Smarting  still  under  the  monstrous 
accusation  that  he  had  by  his  poetry  been  en- 
gaged with  others  in  an  attempt  to  demoralise 
the  public  mind  by  the  glorification  of  mere 
lust,  he  jumped  with  eagerness  at  a  whole- 
hearted defence  of  his  literary  and  human  im- 
pulses, as  a  writer  who  had  been  prompted  by 
the  highest  of  spiritual  emotions,  and  as  a  man 
to  whom  the  passions  of  the  body  were  as  noth- 
ing unless  sanctified  by  the  concurrence  of  the 
soul. 

My  lecture  was  printed  about  a  year  after  its 
delivery,  and  then  eagerly  but  nervously,  and 
I  think  modestly,  I  sent  a  copy  of  it  to  the 
poet,  hardly  exi^ecting  more  than  a  word  of 
response.  A  post  or  two  later  brought  me, 
however,  the  following  reply: 

16  Cheyne  Walk,  Chelsea,  29  July,  1879. 
Dear  Mr,  Caine:  I  am  much  struck  by  the  gener-- 
ous  enthusiasm  displayed  in  your  lecture,  and  by  the 
ability  with  which  it  is  written.  Your  estimate  of  the 
impulses  influencing  my  poetry  is  such  as  I  could  wish 
it  to  suggest,  and  this  suggestion,  I  believe,  it  will 
always  have  for  a  true-hearted  nature.  You  say  that 
you  are  grateful  to  me;  my  response  is  that  I  am  grateful 
to  you;  for  you  have  spoken  up  heartily  and  unfalter- 
ingly for  the  work  you  love. 

58 


MY    FIRST    LITEKAliY    FRIENDS 

I  daresay  you  sometimes  come  to  London.     I  should 

be  very  glad  to  know  you,  and  would  ask  you,  if  you 

thought  of  calling,  to  give  me  a  day's  notice  when  to 

expect  you,  as  I  am  not  always  able  to  see  visitors 

without  appointment.      The  afternoon  about  5  might 

suit  you,  or  else  the  evening  about  9.30. 

With  all  best  wishes, 

Yours  sincerely, 

I).    G.    ROSSETTI. 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE    BEGINNING    OF   A    GREAT    FRIENDSHIP 

IF  the  foregoing  letter  seems  to  the  reader 
to  be  little  more  than  a  courteous  acknowl- 
edgment by  a  famous  poet  of  an  appre- 
ciative criticism  sent  by  a  stranger,  I  must 
urge  that  in  order  to  realise  what  it  meant  to 
me  it  is  necessary  to  think  of  who  and  what  T 
was,  as  (for  this  purj^ose  chiefly)  I  have  tried 
to  show  myself  in  the  foregoing  story — a  young 
man  in  the  country  who  had  begun  life  in  the 
most  unlikely  of  all  conditions  for  the  pursuit 
of  the  literary  calling,  who  had  scratched  and 
scrambled  through  a  kind  of  miscellaneous  edu- 
cation, Heaven  knows  how,  who  had  made  ef- 
forts to  emerge  from  an  environment  for  which 
he  was  quite  unfit,  and  thus  far  failed  in  all  of 
them.  To  this  raw  and  untutored  beginner, 
quite  unrecognised  and  unknown,  a  great  man, 
illustrious  in  two  arts,  in  return  for  a  little 
essay,  a  mere  lecture  delivered  in  a  provincial 
city  to  an  audience  whose  opinion  could  have  no 

60 


BEGINNING  OF  A  GREAT  FRIENDSHIP 

sensible  effect  on  his  fame,  held  out  his  hand 
and  said,  at  a  moment  perhaps  of  deep  discour- 
agement, "  I  should  be  very  glad  to  know  you." 
Is  it  a  matter  for  much  surprise  that  the  day 
I  received  that  first  letter  from  Rossetti  seemed 
to  me  to  be  the  greatest  day  of  my  life? 

I  think  it  not  improbable  that  my  reply  suf- 
ficiently expressed  the  emotion  I  describe,  for 
the  poet  wrote  to  me  again  and  again  within 
a  very  few  days,  with  a  warmth  and  tender- 
ness which  I  still  feel  to  be,  under  the  circum- 
stances of  the  great  disparity  between  us,  both 
as  to  age  and  gifts  and  condition,  almost  inex- 
pressibly touching. 

"  My  dear  Caine,"  he  wrote,  after  a  while, 
"  let  me  assure  you  at  once  that  correspond- 
ence with  yourself  is  one  of  my  best  pleasures, 
and  that  you  cannot  write  too  much  or  too 
often  for  me;  though  after  what  you  have  told 
me  as  to  the  apportioning  of  your  time  [I  had 
to  be  at  my  office  at  six  in  the  morning  in  those 
days]  I  would  be  unwilling  to  encroach  un- 
duly upon  it.  Neither  should  I  on  my  side 
prove  very  tardy  in  reply,  as  you  are  one  to 
whom  I  find  there  is  something  to  say  when  I 
sit  down  with  a  pen  and  paper.  I  have  a  good 
deal  of  enforced  evening  leisure,  as  it  is  sel- 
dom I  can  paint  or  draw  by  gas  light.    It  would 

61 


MY    STOEY 

not  be  right  in  me  to  refrain  from  saying  that 
to  meet  with  one  so  '  leal  and  true '  to  myself 
as  you  are  has  been  a  consolation  amid  much 
discouragement. 

"  Do  please  drop  the  '  Mr.'  in  writing  to  me 
again." 

Thus  far  Eossetti  knew  nothing  more  about 
me  than  I  h~ave  indicated  in  this  narrative,  but 
he  was  naturally  curious  to  learn  something 
about  his  correspondent;  in  those  early  days 
he  put  pointed  questions  occasionally. 

"  Some  one  to  whom  I  showed  your  article," 
he  wrote,  "  would  insist,  from  the  last  para- 
graph, that  you  must  be  a  Eoman  Catholic. 
Is  this  the  case  1  Pardon  my  putting  the  query, 
as  I  perceive  rather  abruptly." 

On  this  hint  I  wrote  freely  enough,  appar- 
ently, and  he  replied : 

"  I  am  truly  delighted  to  hear  how  young 
you  are:  I  suppose  you  are  not  married.  In 
original  work  a  man  does  some  of  his  best 
things  by  your  time  of  life,  though  he  only 
finds  it  out  in  a  rage  much  later,  at  some  date 
when  he  expected  to  know  no  longer  that  he 
had  ever  done  them.  Keats  hardly  died  so 
much  too  early — not  at  all  if  there  had  been 
any  danger  of  his  taking  to  the  modern  habit 
eventually — treating  material  as  product,  and 

62 


BEGINNING  OF  A  GREAT  FRIENDSHIP 

shooting-  it  all  out  as  it  comes.  Of  course, 
however,  lie  wouldn't;  he  was  getting  always 
choicer  and  simpler;  my  favourite  piece  in  his 
works  is  '  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci ' — I  sup- 
pose about  his  last.  As  to  Shelley,  it  is  really 
a  mercy  that  he  has  not  been  hatching  yearly 
universes  till  now.  He  might,  I  suppose,  for 
his  friend  Trelawney  still  walks  the  earth,  with- 
out greatcoat,  stockings,  or  under  clothing  this 
Xmas.     [1879.] 

"  In  criticism  matters  are  very  different  as 
to  the  seasons  of  production,  though  you  have 
done  work  already  that  should  honour  you  yet. 
Nothing  strikes  me  about  you  to  better  purpose 
than  your  simple  lucidity  where  that  alone  is 
wanted,  as  in  the  lecture  you  sent  me. 

"  I  am  writing  hurriedly  and  horridly  in 
every  sense.  Write  again  and  I'll  try  and  an- 
swer better.     All  greetings  to  you." 

Again,  he  wrote :  "  The  comparative  dates  of 
our  births  are  curious.  (I  myself  was  born  on 
old  May  day  ['  12 ']  in  the  year  [1828]  after 
that  in  which  Blake  died).  You  were  born,  in 
fact,  just  as  I  was  giving  up  poetry  at  about 
25,  on  finding  that  it  impeded  attention  to 
what  constituted  another  aim  and  a  livelihood 
into  the  bargain,  i.  e.,  painting.  From  that  date 
up  to  the  year  when  I  published  my  poems,  I 

63 


MY    STORY 

wrote  extremely  little.  I  might  almost  say 
nothing-,  except  the  renovated  '  Jenny '  in  1858 
or  '59.  To  this  again  I  added  a  passage  or  two 
when  publishing  in  1870." 

My  employment  in  Liverpool  delayed  for 
many  months  the  moment  when  I  was  to  meet 
Eossetti  in  London,  but  our  intimacy  deepened 
by  correspondence  and  he  began  to  send  me 
some  of  the  shorter  poems  which  he  had  not 
yet  published,  and  to  ask  me  to  show  him  such 
work  as  I  had  done  myself. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  my  things,"  he 
said.  "  All  you  said  in  your  letter  of  this 
morning  was  very  grateful  to  me.  I  have  a 
fair  amount  by  me  in  the  way  of  later  MS. 
which  I  may  show  some  day  when  we  meet. 
Meantime  I  feel  that  your  energies  are  already 
in  full  swing — work  coming  on  the  heels  of 
work — and  that  your  time  cannot  be  long  de- 
layed as  regards  your  place  as  a  writer.  Do 
you  write  poetry?  I  should  think  you  must 
surely  do  so." 

In  replies  to  inquiries  like  this  I  was  nat- 
urally very  eager  to  show  what  I  had  done,  so 
I  sent  poetry,  criticism,  prose  narrative,  and, 
T  think,  fragments  of  drama,  most  of  it  un- 
published and  some  of  it  never  to  see  print. 

"  I  return  your  article  on  the  '  Supernatural 

64 


JiUai:  W>U»>'«.'I1.-1H 


__-»^  ^      ^  >  .p  • 


'*^>^ 


■i^^jz  p 


^ 


^^^^^^ 


A  Letter  from  Rossetti. 


BEGINNING  OF  A  GREAT  EKIENDSlilP 

in  Poetry,' "  he  said.  "  In  reading  it  I  feel  it 
a  distinction  that  my  minute  plot  in  the  poetic 
field  should  have  attracted  the  gaze  of  one  who 
is  able  to  traverse  its  widest  ranges  with  so 
much  command.  I  shall  be  much  pleased  if  the 
plan  of  calling  on  me  is  carried  out  soon — at 
any  rate  I  trust  it  will  be  so  eventually. 

"  I  have  been  reading  again  your  article  on 
the  '  Supernatural.'  It  is  truly  admirable — 
such  work  must  soon  make  you  a  place.  The 
dramatic  paper  [it  was  a  pamphlet  on  Henry 
Irving's  Macbeth]  I  thought  suffered  from 
some  immaturity — moreover,  if  I  were  you,  I 
should  eschew  modern  dramatic  matters." 

"  I  perceive,"  he  wrote  playfully,  "  you  have 
had  a  complete  poetic  career  which  you  have 
left  behind  to  strike  out  into  wider  waters! 
The  passage  on  '  Night,'  which  you  say  was 
written  under  the  planet  Shelley,  seems  to  me 
(and  to  my  brother,  to  whom  I  read  it)  to 
savour  more  of  the  '  mortal  moon  ' — that  is  of 
a  weird  and  sombre  Elizabethanism,  of  which 
Beddoes  may  be  considered  the  modern  repre- 
sentative. But  we  both  think  it  has  an  unmis- 
takable force  and  value;  and  if  you  can  write 
better  poetrj^  than  this,  let  your  angel  say 
unto  YOU,  TFr?^e." 

But    Rossetti's    critical    indulgence    of    the 

65 


MY    STORY 

youngest  of  poetasters  did  not  forbid  the  ex- 
pression of  a  frank  opinion.  "  You  may  be 
sure,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  mean  essential  dis- 
couragement when  I  say  that  full  as  '  Nell '  is 
of  reality  and  jjathos,  your  swing  of  arm  seems 
to  me  firmer  and  freer  in  prose  than  in  verse. 
You  know  already  how  high  I  rate  your  future 
career  (short  of  the  incalculable  storms  of 
Fate),  but  I  do  think  I  see  your  field  to  lie 
chiefly  in  the  noble  achievements  of  fervid  and 
impassioned  prose.  ...  I  thought  the  passage 
on  *  Night '  showed  an  aptitude  for  choice  ima- 
gery. I  should  much  like  to  see  something 
which  you  view  as  your  best  poetic  effort  hith- 
erto. After  all  there  is  no  need  that  every 
gifted  writer  should  take  the  path  of  poetry.  I 
am  confident  in  your  preference  for  frankness 
on  my  part." 

While  the  hampering  conditions  of  my  em- 
ployment delayed  our  coming  together,  Ros- 
setti  showed  a  good  deal  of  friendly  anxiety  to 
bring  me  into  contact  with  such  of  his  friends 
as  were  near  to  Liverpool  or  had  occasion  to 
visit  it.  In  this  way  I  met  Madox  Brown,  and 
sat  to  him  for  one  of  the  figures  in  his  admira- 
ble frescoes  in  the  Town  Hall  at  Manchester, 
and  in  this  way,  too,  I  met  Stephens,  the  art 
critic. 

66 


BEGINNING  OF  A  GREAT  FRIENDSHIP 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  were  welcomed  by  dear 
stanch  Stephens,  as  I  felt  sure  you  would  be. 
He  is  one  of  my  oldest  and  best  friends,  of 
whom  few  can  be  numbered  at  my  age,  from 
causes  only  too  varying. 

"Go  from  me,  summer  friends,  and  tarry  not — 
I  am  no  summer  friend,  but  wintry  cold. 

"  So  be  it,  as  needs  must  be — not  for  all,  let 
us  hope,  and  not  ivith  all,  as  good  Stephens 
shows.  I  have  not  seen  him  since  his  return. 
I  wrote  him  a  line  to  thank  him  for  his  friendly 
reception  of  you,  and  he  wrote  in  return  to 
thank  me  for  your  acquaintance,  and  spoke 
very  pleasantly  of  you.  Your  youth  seems  to 
have  surprised  him.  .  .  .  You  mention  some- 
thing he  said  to  you  of  me  and  my  surround- 
ings. They  are  certainly  quiet  enough  as  far 
as  retirement  goes,  and  I  have  often  thought  I 
should  enjoy  the  presence  of  a  congenial  and 
intellectual  house-fellow  and  board-fellow  in 
this  big  barn  of  mine,  which  is  actually  going 
to  rack  and  ruin  for  want  of  use.  But  where  to 
find  the  welcome,  the  willing,  and  the  able  com- 
bined in  one?  .  .  .  Your  letter  holds  out  the 
welcome  probability  of  meeting  you  here  ere 
long." 

This  note  of  his  loneliness  was  only  too  in- 

67 


MY    STORY 

sistent  in  his  earlier  letters.  "  I  am  sometimes 
very  solitary,"  lie  said,  "  and  then  letter  writ- 
ing  brings  solace,  when  one  addresses  so  young 
and  hox^eful  a  well-wisher  as  yourself.  Accord- 
ingly I  sit  down  to-night  to  answer  your  last 
letter." 

My  health  failed  me  for  a  time,  and  though 
Rossetti  and  I  had  not  even  yet  seen  each  other 
face  to  face,  his  anxiety  about  my  condition 
could  not  have  been  greater  had  I  been  his  own 
son. 

"  You  are  very  young  to  be  so  beset  with 
dark  moods,"  he  said,  "  and  I  am  much  con- 
cerned to  hear  it.  Every  one,  I  suppose,  thinks 
he  only  knows  the  full  bitterness  of  the  Shad- 
owed Valley.  I  hope  health  is  whole  with  you 
— then  all  must  come  out  well,  with  your  mind 
and  such  energy  as  yours  to  make  its  way. 

"  It  is  very  late.     Good-bye  for  to-night." 

Such  were  the  earliest  of  the  letters  which 
formed  the  beginnings  of  my  first  great  lit- 
erary friendship,  and  if  I  havB  permitted  my- 
self to  transcribe  the  too  generous  words  of 
one  whose  personal  affections  may  have  been 
already  engaged,  I  have  no  fear  of  misconcep- 
tion on  the  part  of  right-minded  readers,  and 
shall  not  count  as  so  much  as  the  ghost  of  a 
flea  the  soul  of  the  critic  who  concludes  that  I 

68 


BEGINNING  OF  A  GREAT  FRIENDSHIP 

have  quoted  these  passages  in  order  to  show 
how  in  my  youth  a  great  man  praised  me.  I 
have  quoted  them  because  I  believe  they  illus- 
trate, as  hardly  anything  else  can,  the  sweet- 
est and  most  intimate  if  not  the  highest  and 
noblest  side  of  Rossetti's  nature — that  side, 
namely,  which  showed  his  capacity  for  the 
most  disinterested  friendship.  And  when  I 
think  of  the  traffic  which  too  often  goes  by  that 
name,  the  miserable  commerce  of  give  and  take, 
the  little-hearted  barter  in  which  self-love  usu- 
ally counts  on  being  the  gainer,  I  cannot  but 
think  that  in  letters  like  these,  to  an  unknown 
beginner.  Rossetti  shows  that  with  his  other 
gifts  he  had  the  very  genius  of  friendship  it- 
self. 

Not  to  me  only,  as  I  now  know,  did  he  show 
sympathy  and  unselfishness,  for  the  stories  are 
not  few  or  rare  of  how  he  gave  his  time  and 
energies,  and  even  in  some  cases  sacrificed  a 
little  of  his  personal  aims  and  ambitions,  in 
order  to  forward  the  interests  of  his  friends, 
but  I  think  there  was  something  exceptional  in 
the  friendship  he  gave  to  me.  If  he  lived  a 
solitary  life  in  those  days  it  was  not  because 
he  might  not  have  found  society  enough  among 
importunate  admirers  round  aliout  him,  who 
would  have  been  only  too  eager  to  give  him 
6  69 


MY    STORY 

their  company  at  the  faintest  hint  or  wink; 
but  outside  the  narrow  circle  of  intimate  com- 
rades he  selected  for  his  friend  a  young  fellow 
in  the  country,  half  his  age,  who  could  bring 
him  nothing  but  sympathy,  and  counted  for  so 
very  little  in  a  world  in  which  he  counted  for 
so  much. 

I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  there  are  tears  in 
my  eyes  and  a  lump  in  my  throat  when  I  read 
again  in  Rossetti's  letters  of  the  long  evenings 
in  his  studio,  when  it  was  impossible  for  him 
to  paint  or  draw  by  gas  light,  and  his  loneliness 
was  broken  by  writing  to  me,  for  I  know  that, 
but  for  the  unselfishness  with  which  in  this 
way  he  gave  me  so  many  hours  of  his  silent 
company,  and  but  for  the  encouragement,  the 
strength,  and  self-sacrifice  he  brought  me,  it 
would  have  taken  me  long  to  emerge  from  the 
commonplace  round  of  daily  life.  Not  that  I 
was  in  any  sense  an  object  of  pity,  for  I  was 
no  poor  little  drudge  in  a  blacking  warehouse, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  a  much-indulged  servant 
of  an  employer  who  had  made  me  his  friend; 
but  all  the  time  I  was  a  clerk  in  the  lower  mid- 
dle class  of  provincial  life,  and  that  is  perhaps 
the  wheel  of  life  from  which  it  is  hardest  of 
all  to  escape. 

That  I  escaped  from  it  at  all  was  jDerhaps 

70 


BEGINNING  OF  A  GREAT  FRIENDSHIP 

chiefly  due  to  the  generous  extravagance  with 
which  Rossetti  told  me,  in  so  many  ways,  that 
my  "  time  could  not  be  long  delayed,"  and  that 
in  spite  of  the  dark  moods  "  all  7nust  come  out 
well."  There  was  not  much  to  justify  such 
bold  predictions  then,  and  when,  years  after- 
ward, on  the  publication  of  the  first  of  my 
Manx  novels,  Rossetti's  brother  William  said, 
"  After  all  Gabriel  knew  what  he  was  doing," 
I  was  more  moved  by  that  than  by  many  fa- 
vourable articles,  and  since  then,  if  I  have  spent 
countless  precious  hours  reading  the  efforts  of 
beginners  and  struggling  to  say  good  words  of 
them,  it  has  been  only  by  way  of  balancing  my 
reckoning  with  one  who,  in  my  early  and  dark 
days,  did  so  much  for  me. 

The  correspondence  from  which  I  have  quot- 
ed some  pages  went  on  without  interruption 
for  something  more  than  a  year,  and  during 
that  time  there  was  not,  I  suppose,  a  single  day 
in  which  I  did  not  either  receive  a  letter  from 
Rossetti  or  write  to  him.  What  my  own  let- 
ters were  like  I  cannot  any  longer  recall,  nor 
is  it  necessary  to  remember,  but  Rossetti's  let- 
ters, which  were  sometimes  very  long,  being  of 
six,  eight,  twelve,  and  even  sixteen  pages,  con- 
stitute perhaps  a  larger  body  of  writing  than 
all  his  published  compositions  put  together.    It 

71 


MY    STORY 

will  therefore  be  a  matter  for  no  surprise  tliat 
from  that  time  forward,  for  several  years  to 
come,  my  life  was  my  friendship  with  Rossetti. 
I  shall  try  in  the  next  section  of  this  book  to 
tell  the  story  of  that  friendship,  the  greatest, 
the  most  intimate,  the  most  beautiful  that  has 
ever  come  to  me.  In  order  to  do  so  I  must 
begin  by  giving  an  account  of  Rossetti's  life 
before  I  knew  him,  and  if  this  proves  to  be  a 
thrice-told  tale  I  can  at  least  promise  that  it 
will  be  brief. 


PART   TWO 


CHAPTER   I 

THE    STORY   OF    MY    FRIEND's   LIFE 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  (bap- 
tised Gabriel  Charles  Dante)  was  the 
eldest  son  of  Gabriele  Rossetti,  a  patri- 
otic poet  exiled  from  the  Abruzzi,  and  of  Fran- 
ces Polidori,  a  daughter  of  Alfieri's  secretary 
and  a  sister  of  the  young  doctor  who  travelled 
with  Lord  Byron. 

Gabriel  (the  name  by  which  his  family  al- 
ways knew  him)  was  bom,  as  he  had  told  me, 
on  old  May  Day,  the  12th  of  1828,  in  Charlotte 
Street,  Portland  Place.  He  had  one  brother, 
William  Michael,  and  two  sisters,  Christina 
and  Maria. 

The  elder  Rossetti's  house  was,  as  long  as  he 
lived,  the  constant  resort  of  Italian  refugees, 
from  which  I  judge  that  though  he  did  not  live 
to  see  the  returning  glories  of  his  country,  he 
remained  true  to  the  last  to  the  principles  for 
which  he  had  fought  and  suffered ;  but  I  do  not 
gather  that  any  of  his  children,  least  of  all  his 

75 


MY    STORY 

eldest  son,  felt  any  call  of  blood  to  participate 
actively  in  the  struggles  of  Italy.  From  the  be- 
ginning to  the  end  Rossetti  was,  I  think,  an 
absolute  Englishman. 
\  The  home  of  the  Italian  exile  in  London  ap- 
pears to  have  been  that  of  a  poor  scholar, 
and  among  the  consequences  of  this  condition 
was  the  inevitable  one  that  his  children  were 
brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  culture,  and 
that  his  sons  had  to  seek  their  own  livelihood  as 
soon  as  possible.  After  a  few  years  at  King's 
College  School,  Rossetti  studied  at  the  Royal 
Academy  Antique  School,  and  he  appears  to 
have  been  a  fairly  assiduous  student.  I  remem- 
ber that  in  later  years  when  his  habit  of  late 
rising  was  a  stock  su])ject  of  banter  between 
us,  he  told  me  with  pride  that  at  this  period 
he  would  rise  at  six  in  the  morning  once  a  week 
to  attend  a  life  class  and  breakfast  on  a  but- 
tered roll  and  a  cuj)  of  cotfee  at  a  stall  at  a 
street  corner,  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  domestic 
arrangements  by  requiring  the  servants  to  get 
up  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 

So  far  as  I  can  gather  he  did  not  exercise  the 
self-denial  very  long,  for  he  left  the  family  roof 
after  a  few  years  and,  in  the  interests  of  his 
studies,  pitched  his  tent  with  certain  of  his 
artist   friends.     These  were   Millais,   Holman 

76 


THE    STORY    OF    MY    FRIEND'S    LIFE 

Hunt,  Wolner,  Deverell,  Stephens,  and  al)ove 
all  Madox  Brown.  With  some  of  this  group 
of  associates  while  he  was  still  under  age  he 
started  an  art  movement,  to  which  half  in  jest 
he  gave  the  name  of  Pre-Raphaelitism. 

The  group  of  young  artists  calling  them- 
selves Pre-Raphaelites  had  begun  to  exhibit, 
to  attract  attention,  to  excite  discussion  and 
provoke  censure,  when  Ruskin,  already  a  great 
light  in  art  criticism,  came  to  the  rescue  of  the 
little  brotherhood  by  writing  a  letter  in  their 
defence  in  the  Times,  and  thus  placed  their 
movement  in  the  category  of  serious  efforts. 

From  early  days  Rossetti  had  written  poetry, 
and  it  is  clear  from  a  letter  already  quoted 
that  many  of  his  most  admired  poems  were  the 
work  of  his  first  twenty-five  years.  Some  of 
the  best,  showing  marked  originality  of  man- 
ner and  substance,  were  obviously  the  product 
of  his  minority,  and  were  accepted  side  by  side 
with  Pre-Raphaelitism  in  art,  as  manifesta- 
tions of  Pre-Raphaelitism  in  literature.  A 
magazine  called  The  Germ'  was  started  to  illus- 
trate the  new  ideas,  and  later,  in  a  kind  of  semi- 
affiliated  way,  came  a  kindred  magazine,  called 
The  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  Beyond  contrib- 
uting a  few  of  his  poems,  however,  to  these  pe- 
riodicals, Rossetti  made  little  or  no  attempt  to 

77 


MY    STOEY 

publish  his  poetry,  which  nevertheless  acquired 
a  kind  of  subterranean  reputation  among  his 
private  friends. 

His  23ersonal  character  in  these  days  of  early 
manhood  is  described  as  generous  and  genial, 
but,  also,  a  little  masterful.  He  was  admitted- 
ly the  king  of  his  circle,  and  I  fear  it  must  be 
said  that  in  all  that  constituted  kingship  he 
took  care  to  rule. 

Eossetti  was  never  in  any  distinct  sense  a 
humourist,  but  there  came  to  him  at  this  period 
those  outbursts  of  high  si:>irits  which  act  as 
safety-valves  to  serious  natures.  At  such  times 
he  appears  to  have  plunged  into  any  mad-cap 
escapade  that  might  be  afoot  with  complete 
heedlessness  of  consequences.  Stories  of  mis- 
adventures, quips  and  quiddities  of  every  kind 
were  then  his  delight,  and  he  was  by  no  means 
above  the  innocent  ruffianism  of  the  practical 
joke. 

But,  midway  between  the  twenties  and  the 
thirties,  there  came  into  his  life  an  event  that 
was  to  touch  the  deepest  side  of  his  nature. 
One  day  his  friend  Deverell,  going  with  his 
mother  into  a  milliner's  shop  in  Oxford  Street, 
saw  through  an  open  door  a  number  of  young 
girls  at  work  in  an  inner  room.  Among  the 
girls  was  one  who  had  the  most  glorious  mass 

78 


THE    STORY    OF    MY    FRIEND'S    LIFE 

of  reddish  auburn  hair,  and  as  this  was  then 
the  favourite  Pre-Raphaelite  colour,  Deverell's 
interest  was  excited  in  a  moment,  and  he  whis- 
pered to  his  mother,  "  Ask  that  girl  with  the 
red  hair  if  she  will  sit  to  me."  After  some 
hesitation  Mrs.  Deverell  did  so,  and  on  this 
chance  hung  the  beginning  of  what  is  perhaps 
the  most  tragic  series  of  incidents  in  modern 
literary  life. 

The  girl  sat  as  a  model  to  Deverell,  and 
through  him  to  Rossetti  also.  Her  name  was 
Elizabeth  Eleanor  Siddall,  and  she  was  the 
daughter  of  a  singer  at  one  of  the  dissenting 
chapels.  Father  and  daughter  had  lately  come 
from  Sheffield,  where  certain  records  of  them 
are  still  preserved.  The  girl  was  young  and 
beautiful,  clever  also  in  various  ways,  and  she 
presently  revealed  a  very  marked  aptitude  for 
art.  She  became  known  to  all  the  young  ar- 
tists of  the  Rossetti  circle,  and  Ruskin  appears 
to  have  taken  a  peculiar  interest  in  her.  It  is 
said  that  to  enable  her  to  liberate  herself  from 
the  thraldom  of  her  menial  occupation,  yet  not 
to  wound  her  pride,  the  great  critic,  who  was 
rich,  offered  to  buy  all  the  pictures  she  could 
paint,  on  condition  that  she  should  become  a 
pupil  of  Rossetti.  There  appears  to  have  been 
no  difficulty  about  this,  for  the  painter's  inter- 

79 


MY   STORY 

est  in  his  young  model  had  speedily  ripened 
into  love.  In  due  course  Rossetti  and  Eliza- 
beth Siddall  became  engaged. 

The  young  girl  must  have  been  a  very  re- 
markable creature.  Her  face,  as  Rossetti 
painted  it,  shows  intellect  and  sensibility  in 
a  high  degree,  but  a  certain  tendency  to  sad- 
ness. People  who  remember  her,  however, 
speak  of  her  as  cheerful  and  bright,  if  not  vi- 
vacious, in  that  spring-time  of  her  youth. 

They  seem  to  have  been  happy  in  those  early 
days,  painting  together,  reading  together,  and 
even  writing  together,  for  the  girl  developed 
under  Rossetti's  tuition  not  only  a  wonderful 
eye  for  colour  and  an  astonishing  power  of 
composition,  but  also  a  real  appreciation  of 
the  higher  poetic  literature  and  a  capacity  for 
producing  it;  while  he,  too,  as  we  may  plainly 
see  without  other  knowledge  than  the  internal 
evidences  of  his  work,  produced  some  of  the 
most  pure  and  perfect  of  his  poems  under  the 
impulse  of  her  presence  and  the  inspiration  of 
his  first  great  love. 

Then  came  a  separation,  and  it  is  not  easy 
for  me  to  say  what  it  was  due  to,  so  conflict- 
ing are  the  stories  of  those  who  claim  to  know. 
I  have  heard  that,  beautiful  and  brilliant  as 
Elizabeth  Siddall  was,  she  was  not  (as  is  nat- 

80 


THE    STORY    OF    MY    FKIEXD'S    LIFE 

ural)  in  the  conventional  sense  an  educated 
woman,  and  that  at  her  own  suggestion  and  by 
Eossetti's  help  she  went  away  to  school.  I 
have  also  heard  that  at  a  moment  of  some  dif- 
ference Ruskin  again  interposed,  with  certain 
delicate  overtures,  which  enabled  her  to  return 
for  further  study  to  her  native  place.  At  all 
events,  she  left  London  and  was  away  for  a 
considerable  time. 

Meantime,  Eossetti,  giving  up  poetry  on 
finding,  as  he  says,  that  it  "  impeded  attention 
to  what  constituted  another  aim  and  a  liveli- 
hood into  the  bargain,"  devoted  himself  entirely 
to  his  painting.  At  twenty-eight  he  undertook, 
with  two  or  three  other  young  painters,  to  cover 
with  frescoes  the  walls  of  Union  Debating  Hall 
at  Oxford,  and  while  engaged  upon  this  task 
he  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  group  of  un- 
dergraduates, with  whose  name  his  own  name 
has  ever  since  been  associated — Burne-Jones, 
Swinburne,  and  William  Morris,  as  well  as  one 
other  who  proved  to  be  among  the  strongest, 
purest,  and  most  lasting  influences  upon  his 
life,  the  lady,  herself  a  model  at  the  beginning, 
who  afterward  became  his  friend  Morris's 
wife. 

"WTiat  effect  these  new  friendships,  any  or 
all  of  them,  may  have  had  on  the  relation  in 

81 


MY    STORY 

wliicli  he  still  stood  to  Elizabeth  Siddall,  it 
would  perhaps  be  hard  to  say,  but  I  think 
evidences  are  not  wanting  in  the  poems  writ- 
ten about  this  period  of  a  new  and  disturbing 
element,  a  painful  and  even  tragic  awakening, 
a  sense  of  a  great  passion  coming  too  late,  and 
above  all  of  a  struggle  between  love  and  duty 
which  augured  less  than  well  for  the  happiness 
of  the  marriage  that  was  to  come. 

But  Elizabeth  Siddall  returned  to  London, 
and  Rossetti  and  she  were  married.  Friends 
who  saw  much  of  them  in  earlier  days  of  their 
married  life  speak  of  their  obvious  happiness, 
and  protest,  in  particular,  against  evil  rumours 
circulated  later,  that  nothing  could  have  been 
more  marked  than  Rossetti's  zealous  attentions 
to  his  young  wife.  All  the  same,  it  is  true  that 
very  soon  her  spirits  drooped,  her  art  was  laid 
aside,  and  much  of  the  cheerfulness  of  home 
was  lost  to  both  of  them.  Iler  health  failed, 
she  suffered  from  neuralgia,  and  began  to  be 
a  victim  of  nervous  ailments  of  other  kinds. 

To  allay  her  sufferings  she  took  laudanum, 
at  first  in  small  doses,  but  afterward  in  ex- 
cess. A  child  came,  but  it  was  still-born,  and 
then  her  mood,  already  sad,  appears  to  have 
deepened  to  one  of  settled  melancholy.  I  re- 
member to  have  heard  Madox  Brown  say  that 

82 


THE    STORY    OF    MY    FRIEND'S    LIFE 

she  would  sit  for  lon^  hours  with  her  feet  in- 
side the  fender  looking  fixedly  into  the  fire.  It 
is  easy  to  believe  that  to  a  man  so  impression- 
able as  Rossetti,  so  dependent  on  cheerful  sur- 
roundings, so  liable  to  dark  moods  of  his  own, 
this  must  have  been  a  condition  which  made 
home  hard  to  bear.  If  he  escaped  from  it  as 
often  as  possible,  it  is  perhaps  only  natural, 
and  it  is  no  less  natural  if  his  absence  was  mis- 
understood. I  express  no  opinion,  but  the  facts 
appear  to  point  that  way. 

They  were  living  in  rooms  in  Chatham  Place 
by  the  old  Blackfriars  Bridge,  and  one  evening, 
about  half -past  six,  being  invited  to  dine  with 
friends  at  an  hotel  in  Leicester  Square,  they 
got  into  a  carriage  to  go.  It  had  been  a  bad 
day  for  the  young  wife,  and  they  had  hardly 
reached  the  Strand  when  her  nervousness  be- 
came distressing  to  Rossetti,  and  he  wished  her 
to  return.  She  was  unwilling  to  do  so,  and  they 
went  on  to  their  appointment,  but  it  may  be  as- 
sumed that  her  condition  did  not  improve,  for 
at  eight  o'clock  they  were  back  at  home. 

Soon  after  that  Rossetti  left  his  wife  pre- 
paring to  retire  for  the  night,  and  went  out 
again  apparently  to  walk.  When  he  returned 
at  half -past  eleven  he  found  his  rooms  full  of 
a  strong  odour  of  laudanum,  his  wife  breathing 

83 


MY    STORY 

stertorously  and  lying  unconscious  on  the  bed. 
He  called  a  doctor,  who  saw  at  once,  what  was 
only  too  o])vious,  that  the  lady  had  taken  an 
overdose  of  her  accustomed  sleeping  draught. 
Other  doctors  were  summoned,  and  every  ef- 
fort was  made  to  save  the  patient's  life,  but 
after  lingering  several  hours  without  recover- 
ing consciousness  for  a  moment,  and  therefore 
without  offering  a  word  of  explanation,  tow- 
ard seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  sllg  died. 

Next  day  an  inquest  was  held  at  which  Ros- 
setti,  though  stimned  and  stupefied,  had  to  give 
the  evidence  which  is  summarised  in  the  fore- 
going statement.  There  had  been  no  reason 
why  his  wife  should  wilfully  take  her  own  life ; 
quite  the  contrary;  and  when  he  left  her  about 
nine  o'clock  she  seemed  more  at  ease.  The  ver- 
dict was  "  accidental  death."  The  proceedings 
of  the  coroner's  court  were  reported  in  a  short 
paragraph  in  one  only  of  the  London  papers, 
and  there  the  poet's  name  was  wrongly  spelled. 
"  This  was  in  1862,  no  more  than  two  years 
after  the  marriage  that  had  been  waited  for  so 
long.  The  blow  to  Rossetti  was  a  terrible  one. 
It  was  some  days  before  he  seemed  to  realise 
fully  the  loss  that  had  befallen  him,  but  after 
that  his  grief  knew  no  bounds,  and  it  first  ex- 
pressed itself  in  a  way  that  was  full  of  the 

84 


THE    STORY    OF    MY    FRIEND'S    LIFE 

tragic  grace  and  beauty  of  a  great  renuncia- 
tion. 

Many  of  his  poems  had  been,  as  I  have  said, 
inspired  by  and  addressed  to  his  wife,  and  at 
her  request  he  had  copied  them  out,  sometimes 
from  memory,  into  a  little  book  which  she  had 
given  to  him  for  this  purpose.  With  this  book 
in  his  hand,  on  the  day  of  her  funeral,  he 
walked  into  the  room  where  her  body  lay,  and 
quite  unmindful  of  the  presence  of  others,  he 
spoke  to  his  dead  wife  as  though  she  could 
hear,  saying  the  poems  it  contained  had  been 
written  to  her  and  for  her  and  she  must  take 
them  with  her  to  the  grave.  With  these  words, 
or  words  to  the  same  effect,  he  placed  the  little 
volume  in  the  coffin  by  the  side  of  his  wife's 
face,  and  wrapped  it  round  with  her  beautiful 
golden  hair,  and  it  was  buried  with  her  in  High- 
gate  Cemetery. 

It  was  long  before  Rossetti  recovered.  Per- 
haps he  was  never  the  same  man  again.  At 
least,  the  brilliant  and  perhaps  rather  noisy 
young  fellow,  fond  of  intellectual  gymnastics 
and  full  of  a  sort  of  animal  spirits,  was  gone 
for  good,  and  though  after  a  time  he  recovered 
a  certain  hilarity,  there  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  much  real  joy  in  it.  Not  long  after  his 
wife's    death    he    removed    from    Blackfriars 

7  80 


MY    STOEY 

Bridge  and  made  his  home  in  the  house  already 
referred  to,  Queen's  House,  ChejTie  Walk, 
Chelsea. 

Before  leaving  his  old  quarters,  he  destroyed 
many  things  associated  with  his  life  there, 
among  them  being  a  great  ])ody  of  letters, 
some  very  valuable,  from  men  and  women 
eminent  in  literature  and  art — Euskin,  Tenny- 
son, and  Browning.  Perhaps  with  the  same 
view  of  cutting  himself  off  from  everything 
that  was  likely  to  remind  him  of  his  great  loss, 
he  separated  himself  from  many  of  his  former 
friends.  It  was  of  course  the  last  course  he 
ought  to  have  taken,  whether  in  the  interests 
of  his  mental  or  bodily  health,  and  the  con- 
sequences of  his  isolation  came  only  too  quickly 
and  lasted  only  too  long. 

Insomnia,  that  curse  of  the  literary  and 
artistic  temperament,  had  been  hanging  about 
him  for  years,  and  now  he  began  to  try  opiates. 
He  took  them  in  sparing  quantities  after  the 
death  of  his  wife,  for  had  he  not,  in  that  fact 
alone,  the  most  fearful  cause  to  avoid  their 
use?  But  presently  he  heard  of  the  then  newly 
found  drug,  |6lilora],  which  was  of  course  ac- 
credited at  the  beginning  with  all  the  virtues 
and  none  of  the  vices  of  other  Imown  narcotics. 
Here,  then,  was  the  thing  he  wanted;  this  was 

86 


THJ^    STORY    OF    MY    FRIEND'S    LIFE 

the  blessed  discovery  that  was  to  save  him 
from  days  of  weariness  and  nights  of  misery. 
Eagerly  he  procured  it,  took  it  nightly  in 
small  doses  of  ten  grains  each,  and  it  gave  him 
pleasant  and  refreshing  sleep.  He  made  no 
concealment  of  his  habit;  like  Coleridge  under 
similar  circumstances,  he  rather  elected  to  talk 
of  it.  Not  yet  had  he  learned  the  sad  truth, 
too  soon  to  force  itself  upon  him,  that  this 
dreadful  drug  was  an  evil  power  with  which 
he  was  to  fight,  almost  down  to  his  djmg  day, 
a  single-handed  and  losing  battle. 

It  was  not,  however,  for  some  years  after  he 
began  to  use  it  that  chloral  produced  any  sen- 
sible effects  of  an  injurious  kind,  and  mean- 
time he  pursued  his  calling  as  a  painter,  mak- 
ing a  substantial  living  and,  though  he  never 
exhibited,  an  unmistakable  reputation.  After 
a  while  he  amused  himself,  also,  in  furnishing 
his  big  house  in  various  novel  and  beautiful 
styles,  and  in  filling  a  big  garden  at  the  back 
with  a  veritable  menagerie  of  birds  and  beasts. 
Life  recovered  a  measure  of  interest  for  him 
in  other  directions  also,  if  only  as  the  shadowy 
ghost  of  the  glad  spirit  of  happier  years,  and 
Queen's  House  began  to  hum  with  the  doings 
of  friends  old  and  new,  Swinburne,  Morris, 
Burne-Jones,  for  a  short  while  Meredith,  and  of 

87 


MY    STORY 

course  his  ever  constant  and  devoted  brother, 
"William. 

Thus  seven  years  passed,  and  during  that 
time  Eossetti,  who  frequently  immersed  him- 
self in  the  aims  and  achievements  of  his  friends, 
and  witnessed  their  rise  to  fame  and  honour, 
began  to  think  with  pain  of  the  aspirations  as 
a  poet  which  he  had  himself  renounced,  and  to 
cast  backward  glances  at  the  book  he  had 
buried  in  his  wife's  coffin.  That  book  con- 
tained the  only  perfect  copy  of  his  poems, 
other  copies  being  either  incomplete  or  unre- 
vised,  and  it  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that 
he  asked  himself  at  length  if  it  could  not  be 
regained.  The  impulse  of  grief  or  regret,  or 
even  remorse,  that  had  prompted  him  to  the 
act  of  renimciation  had  been  satisfied,  and  for 
seven  years  he  had  denied  himself  the  reward 
of  his  best  i)oetic  effort — was  not  his  penance 
at  an  end?  It  was  doing  no  good  to  the  dead 
to  leave  hidden  in  the  grave  the  most  beautiful 
works  he  had  been  able  to  produce — was  it  not 
his  duty  to  the  living,  to  himself,  and  perhaps 
even  to  God,  to  recover  and  publish  them? 

If  in  the  daily  sight  of  the  growing  reputa- 
tion of  younger  men,  his  friends  and  comrades 
of  no  better  genius,  Rossetti  began  to  be  influ- 
enced by  thoughts  like  these,  without  reflect- 

88 


THE    STORY    OF    MY    FRIEND'S    LIFE 

ing  that  while  it  may  have  been  an  act  of  emo- 
tional weakness  to  bury  his  poems,  it  would  be 
an  act  of  desecration  to  take  them  up  again. 
I  set  it  down  to  the  constant  companionship 
at  that  period  of  a  man  of  whom  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  speak  later  on,  a  person  out  of 
another  world  altogether,  a  daring,  reckless, 
unscrupulous  soldier  of  fortune,  very  clever, 
very  plausible,  very  persuasive,  but  totally 
destitute  of  delicate  feeling  and  almost  with- 
out the  moral  sense. 

Under  this  man's  direction  the  exhumation, 
when  Rossetti  had  brought  himself  to  agree  to 
it,  was  eventually  carried  out.  According  to 
his  own  account,  given  to  me  twelve  years  af- 
terward, the  preparations  were  endless  before 
the  work  could  be  begun.  But  at  length  the 
licence  of  the  Home  Secretary  was  obtained, 
the  faculty  of  the  Consistory  Court  was 
granted,  and  one  night,  seven  and  a  half  years 
after  the  burial,  a  fire  was  built  by  the  side  of 
the  grave  of  Rossetti's  wife  in  Highgate  Ceme- 
tery, the  grave  was  opened,  the  coffin  was 
raised  to  the  surface,  and  the  buried  book  was 
removed. 

I  remember  that  I  was  told,  with  much  else 
which  it  is  unnecessary  to  repeat,  that  the  body 
was  apparently  quite  perfect  on  coming  to  the 

89 


MY    STORY 

light  of  the  fire  on  the  surface,  and  that  when 
the  book  was  lifted,  there  came  away  some  of 
the  beautiful  golden  hair  in  which  Rossetti  had 
entwined  it. 

While  the  painful  work  was  being  done,  the 
mihap23y  author  of  it,  now  keenly  alive  to  its 
gravity,  and  already  torturing  himself  with  the 
thought  of  it  as  a  deed  of  sacrilege,  was  sit- 
ting alone,  anxious  and  full  of  self-reproaches, 
at  the  house  of  the  friend  who  had  charge  of 
it,  until,  later  than  midnight,  he  returned  to 
say  it  was  all  over. 

The  volume  was  not  much  the  worse  for  the 
years  it  had  lain  in  the  earth,  but,  nevertheless, 
it  was  found  necessary  to  take  it  back  to  Ros- 
setti that  illegible  words  might  be  deciphered 
and  deficiencies  filled  in.  This  was  done,  with 
what  result  of  fresh  distress  can  easily  be  im- 
agined, and  then  with  certain  additions  of  sub- 
sequent sonnets  the  manuscript  was  complete. 
Under  the  simple  title  of  "  Poems,"  it  was  pub- 
lished in  1870,  fifteen  years  after  the  greater 
part  of  it  was  produced,  and  when  the  author 
was  forty-two. 

/  The  success  of  the  book  was  immediate  and 
immense,  six  or  seven  considerable  editions 
being  called  for  in  rapid  succession.  Appear- 
ing in  the  same  season  as  Disraeli's  "  Lothair," 

90 


THE    STORY    OF    MY    FRIEND'S    LIFE 

it  ran,  from  the  bookseller's  standpoint,  a  neck- 
and-neck  race  with  a  political  romance  which 
owed  much  of  its  popularit}^  to  recognisable 
portraiture  of  living  persons.  It  was  reviewed 
with  enthusiasm  on  nearly  every  side,  and  it 
was  at  once  the  literary  sensation  and  the  so- 
cial event  of  the  hour. 

It  would  perhaps  be  difficult  to  assign  to  any 
single  cause  this  extraordinary  success  of  a 
book  whose  popular  qualities  were  obviously 
inconsiderable,  whether  as  Swinburne  said  in 
a  noble  essay  full  of  splendid  praise,  to  those 
innate  qualities  of  beauty  and  strength  which 
are  always  the  first  and  last  constituents  of 
23oetry  that  abides,  or  to  the  sudden  explosion 
of  the  enthusiasm  which  had  lived  a  subter- 
ranean life  for  so  many  years  while  the  poems 
were  in  manuscript,  or  yet,  as  I  think  more 
l^robable,  to  the  flick  of  interest  and  curiosity 
which  came  of  a  rumour  of  the  book's  romantic 
history,  culminating  in  its  burial  for  so  many 
years  in  the  grave  of  the  woman  whose  love, 
and  beauty  had  inspired  it.  r 

Whatever  the  cause  of  the  l)Ook's  immediate' 
success,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Rossetti, 
himself  took  great  delight  in  it,  and  that  in  the) 
first  flush  of  his  new-foimd  happiness  he  began 
afresh  with  great  vigour  on  poetic   creation, 

91 


MY    STOEY 

producing  one  of  the  most  remarkable  ballads 
of  his  second  volume  within  a  short  time  of  the 
publication  of  the  first.  But  then  came  a  blow 
which  arrested  his  energies  and  brought  his 
literary  activities  to  a  long  pause. 

About  a  year  after  the  appearance  of  the 
"  Poems,"  an  article  was  published  in  one  of 
the  most  influential  of  the  reviews,  the  Con- 
temporary, which  was  in  general  a  denuncia- 
"^    tion  of  the  sensual  tendencies  of  the  age,  in  art, 
music,  poetry,  and  the  drama,  and  in  particu- 
lar an  imj^eachment  of  the  poetry  of  Eossetti, 
Swinburne,  and  William  Morris,  who  were  said 
io    have    "  bound    themselves    into    a    solemn 
league  and  covenant  to  extol  fleshliness  as  the 
I  distinct  and  supreme  end  of  poetic  and  picto- 
I   rial  art,  to  aver  that  poetic  expression  is  bet- 
ter than  poetic  thought,  and  by  inference  that 
the  body  is  greater  than  the  soul  and  sound 
superior  to  sense." 

The  article,  which  was  entitled  "  The  Fleshly 
\  School  of  Poetry,"  a  name  that  was  in  itself  an 
offence,  suggesting  the  shambles  and  wounding 
the  very  sensibilities  which  it  was  supposed  to 
defend,  was  undoubtedly  written  with  great 
vigour,  much  knowledge  of  literature,  and  an 
immense  power  of  popular  appeal.  It  pro- 
duced a  sensible  effect,  awakening  that  moral 

92 


THE    STORY    OF    MY    FRIEND'S    LIFE 

conscience  wliicli  in  the  Eng'lisli  people  always 
sliiml)ers,  like  the  conventional  lion,  with  one 
eye  open,  and  being  quickly  followed  by  arti- 
cles in  the  same  spirit  appearing  in  other  re\ 
views  and  newspapers  of  equal  or  yet  greater 
standing.  J 

On  its  publication  in  the  Contemporary j  the 
article  bore  the  signature  of  "  Thomas  Mait- 
land,"  but  it  afterward  became  known  that  the 
actual  writer  was  Robert  Buchanan^ -then  a 
yoimg  author  who  had  risen  to  considerable 
distinction  as  a  poet. 

Against  Rossetti,  as  the  latest  and  most  uni- 
versally acclaimed  of  poets,  Buchanan's  attack 
was  especially  directed,  and  while  it  may  be 
freely  admitted  that  there  was  actually  present 
in  some  of  the  poetry  assailed  a  tendency  to 
deviate  from  wholesome  reticence  in  dealing 
with  human  passion,  and  that  to  deify  mere 
lust  is  an  offence  and  an  outrage,  the  sum  total 
of  all  the  poetry  that  was  really  reprehensible 
was  probably  less  than  one  hundred  lines,  and 
therefore  too  inconsideral^le  to  justify  the 
charge  made  against  its  authors  of  an  attempt 
to  ruin  society. 

To  say  that  Rossetti  felt  this  charge  is  not 
to  express  his  sense  of  it.  He  who  had  with- 
held his  pictures  from  exhibition  from  dread 

93 


MY    STORY 

of  the  distracting  influences  of  public  opinion, 
be  wbo  for  fifteen  years  bad  kept  back  bis 
poems  from  print  in  obedience  first  to  an  ex- 
treme modesty  of  personal  estimate,  and  after- 
ward to  tbe  command  of  a  mastering  passion, 
was  of  all  men  tbe  one  most  likely  to  feel  deeply 
and  incurably  tbe  wicked  slander,  bom  in  tbe 
first  instance  of  jealousy,  tbat  be  bad  unpacked 
bis  bosom  of  unbealtby  passions  and  demoral- 
ised tbe  public  mind. 

If  wbat  Rossetti  did,  under  tliis  first  fire  of 
tbe  enemv,  seems  weak  and  futile,  let  it  be  said 
tbat  only  those  wbo  know  by  experience  what 
it  is  to  have  this  foul  accusation  made  against 
them,   can   have   any   idea   of   its    distracting 
l^ower.     In  tbe  first  moments  of  bis  indigna- 
tion he  wrote  a  full  and  point-by-point  rejoin- 
der, printed  it  as  a  pamphlet,  and  had  a  great 
number  struck  off,  and  then  destroyed  every 
copy.    After  tbat  he  wrote  a  temperate,  but  not 
very  effectual,  letter  to  the  Athenceum,  but  find- 
ing that  the  accusations  be  rebutted  were  re- 
Ipeated  immediately  with  increasing  bitterness, 
I  he  lost  hope  of  stemming  the  tide  of  hostile 
jeriticism  and  announced  his  intention  of  aban- 
doning poetic  composition. 
(    One  by  one  some  of  tbe  remaining  friends  of 
earlier  years  seemed  now   to   have   left  him. 
\  ■  94 


THE    STORY    OF    MY    FRIEND'S    LIFE 

Whether,  as  I  have  heard  certain  of  them  say, 
they  wearied  a  little  of  Rossetti's  al)sorptioii  in 
the  critical  attacks  made  upon  him,  thinking 
he  put  them  out  of  proportion,  or  interpreted 
their  origin  and  intention  by  a  light  that  was\ 
scarcely  consistent  with  sanity,  or  whether 
Rossetti,  on  his  part  (as  one  of  the  letters  I 
have  quoted  appears  to  show),  began  to  think 
of  his  old  comrades  as  "  summer  friends,"  who 
fell  away  at  the  first  breath  of  winter,  the  re- 
sult was  the  same — he  shut  himself  up  in  his 
big  house  in  yet  more  absolute  seclusion  than 
before. 

Nor  did  the  mischief  end  there.  The  chloral, 
which  he  had  first  taken  in  small  doses,  he  be- 
gan now,  in  moments  of  physical  prostration 
and  nervous  excitement,  to  indulge  in  to  ex- 
cess, and  as  a  consequence  he  went  through  a 
series  of  terrible  though  intermittent  illnesses, 
inducing  a  morbid  condition,  in  which  he  was 
the  victim  of  many  painful  delusions.  Among 
them,  as  was  perhaps  natural,  were  some  that 
related  to  the  exhumation  of  his  wife's  body,i 
and  the  curse  that  was  supposed  to  have  foW 
lowed  him  for  that  desecration.  This  was  an 
idea  very  liable  to  torment  a  mind  so  suscepti- 
ble to  supernatural  suggestion  as  Rossetti's, 
and  although  one's  soul  cries  out  against  a  tor-/ 

95 


MY    STORY 

tnre  that  was  greater  than  any  sins  of  his  de- 
served, one  cannot  but  welcome  the  thought 
that  the  sechision  to  which  he  doomed  himself, 
and  the  illness  from  which  he  suffered,  were 
due  to  something  more  serious  and  more  worthy 
of  a  man  than  the  hostile  article  of  a  jealous 
fellow-poet. 

Several  years  passed  during  which  Rossetti 
lived  in  the  closest  retirement,  seeing  only  the 
two  or  three  friends  who  had  always  been  with 
him,  Madox  Brown  and  his  faithful  and  un- 
failing brother,  William,  and  then  light  came, 
and  he  began  in  the  fuller  sense  to  live  again. 
Letters  and  articles  reached  him  from  many 
quarters,  from  foreign  countries  and  distant 
colonies,  showing  that  adverse  criticism  had 
not  quenched  the  light  of  his  book.  New  friends 
came,  too,  to  take  the  jDlace  of  those  who  had 
gone  "  from  causes  only  too  varj^ng,"  and  un- 
questionably the  first  of  these — the  first  in  the 
confidence  reposed  in  him  and  the  affection  felt 
for  him — was  Theodore  Watts-Dunton,  known 
at  that  time  as  Walter  Theodore  Watts,  for- 
merly a  solicitor  from  Lincolnshire,  and  then 
the  leader  of  the  reviewing  staff  of  the  AtJie- 
nceum,  as  well  as  a  poet  of  considerable  claim. 
Next  to  Watts,  perhaps,  among  later  friends 
came  Frederic  Shields,   an   artist  from  Man- 

96 


THE    STORY    OF    MY    FRIEND'S    LIFE 

Chester,  whose  power  as  a  draiij^litsman  and 
qualities  as  a  man  Rossetti  held  in  high  esteem. 
Others  there  were,  too,  such  as  Dr.  Hake,  him- 
self a  poet  of  some  distinction,  whose  soothing 
friendship  brought  lasting  solace,  and  finally 
there  was  myself,  coming  into  Rossetti's  life 
under  the  conditions  I  have  described. 

I  am  older  myself  at  this  time  of  writing 
than  Rossetti  was  when  I  first  knew  him,  and 
perhaps  I  can  understand  better  now  than  I 
did  then  what  interest  I  had  for  one  who  had 
twice  my  years.  In  default  of  the  knowledge 
and  the  judgment  that  older  friends  could 
bring,  and  in  spite  of  the  difference  of  our  edu- 
cation and  gifts,  I  must  have  stood  beside  him 
like  his  youth,  with  its  eagerness,  its  hopes,  its 
dreams,  its  aspirations.  This  was  just  what 
was  wanted  at  that  period  by  the  great  man 
who  had  so  latelv  come  out  of  the  Shadowed 
Valley,  but  was  lonely  enough  yet,  notwith- 
standing the  frequent  company  of  loyal  com- 
rades, to  find  comfort  and  cheer  in  the  s\Tn- 
pathy  of  a  young  and  enthusiastic  stranger. 

He  began  to  try  his  hand  again  at  poetic  com- 
position, to  send  me  some  of  his  new  poems 
and  to  write  of  others  with  a  freedom  and 
familiaritv  that  were  entirelv  flattering. 

"  I  am  just  finishing  a  ballad  on  the  Death  of 

97 


MY   STOEY 

James  I.  of  Scotland.  ...  It  is  a  ripper,  I  can 
tell  you,  my  boy." 

It  was  clear  that  life  was  beginning  to  take 
a  brighter  outlook,  and  that  he  was  preparing 
to  publish  again. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  think  in  reading  my 
things.  I  have  a  fair  amomit  by  me  in  the  way 
of  later  MS.,  which  I  may  show  you  some  day 
when  we  meet. 

"  I  hope  sincerely  that  we  may  have  further 
and  closer  opportunities  of  intercourse.  .  .  . 
I  should  welcome  vour  advent  in  London 
warmly." 

Such,  then,  was  Rossetti  when  I  first  knew 
him,  and  during  the  earlier  period  of  our  cor- 
resiDondence,  and  now  the  time  had  come  when 
I  was  to  meet  him  face  to  face.  There  can  be 
no  necessity  to  describe  the  feelings  with  which 
I  went  forward  to  that  first  interview.  Believ- 
ing that  my  friend  of  twenty-five  years  ago 
has  entered  into  the  company  of  the  immortals, 
and  that  a  century  hence  everything  will  be 
of  interest  that  gets  close  to  him  at  any  period, 
my  portrait  may  perhaps  exceed  in  details,  but 
it  shall  not  fail  in  fidelity. 

I  cannot,  of  course,  claim  for  my  picture  that 
it  will  rej^resent  Rossetti  as  he  was  from  first 
to  last,  or  yet  as  he  appeared  to  older  friends, 

98 


THE    STORY    OF    MY    FRIEND'S    LIFE 

who  knew  him  through  varying  phases  of  his 
changeful  career,  but  it  shall  at  least  be  true 
to  Rossetti  as  he  appeared  to  me,  twenty-five 
years  his  junior,  and  coming  to  him,  full  of 
admiration  and  affection,  during  the  last  years 
of  his  life. 


I 


CHAPTER    II 

MY   FIRST    MEETING    WITH    EOSSETTI 

T  was  in  the  aiitiimn  of  1880  that  I  saw 
Rossetti  for  the  first  time.  Being  some- 
what reduced  in  health,  I  had  contem- 
plated a  visit  to  one  of  the  South-coast  water- 
ing-places, and  wrote  saying  that  in  passing 
through  London  I  should  like  to  avail  myself 
of  his  oft-repeated  invitation  to  visit  him.  By 
return  of  post  came  two  letters,  the  one  ob- 
viously written  and  posted  within  an  hour  or 
two  of  the  other.    In  the  first  of  these  he  said : 

I  will  be  truly  glad  to  meet  you  when  you  come  to 
town.  You  will  recognise  the  hole-and-cornerest  of 
all  existences;  but  I'll  read  you  a  ballad  or  two,  and 
have  Brown's  report  to  back  my  certainty  of  liking 
you. 

In  the  second  letter  he  said : 

I  would  propose  that  you  should  dine  with  me  on 
Monday  at  8.30  and  spend  the  evening.  .  .  . 

100 


MY  FIKST   MEETING   WITH   ROSSETTI 

p,  S. — Of  course  when  I  speak  of  your  dining  with 
me,  I  mean  tete-a-tete  and  without  ceremony  of  any 
kind.  I  usually  dine  in  my  studio  and  in  my  painting 
coatl  D-  G.  R. 

ChejTie  Walk  was  unknown  to  me  at  the  time 
of  my  first  visit  to  Eossetti,  except  as  the  lo- 
cality in  which  men  and  women  eminent  in  lit- 
erature were  residing.  It  was  not  even  then 
as  picturesque  as  it  appears  to  be  in  certain 
familiar  engravings,  for  the  embankment  and 
the  gardens  that  separated  it  from  the  main 
thoroughfare  had  already  taken  something 
from  its  quaint  beauty,  but  it  still  possessed  at- 
tractions which  it  has  since  lost,  among  them 
a  look  of  age  which  contrasted  agreeably  with 
the  spick-and-span  newness  of  neighbouring 
districts,  and  the  slumbrous  atmosphere,  as  of 
a  cathedral  close,  drowsing  in  the  autumn  sun 
to  the  murmur  of  the  river  which  flowed  in 
front,  and  the  rustle  of  the  trees  which  grew 
between. 

Every  foot  of  the  old  Walk  was  sacred 
ground  to  me  then,  for  George  Eliot,  after  her 
marriage  with  Mr.  Cross,  had  lately  come  to 
No.  4;  while  at  No.  5  in  the  second  street  to 
the  westward  Carlyle  was  still  living,  and  a 
little  beyond  Cheyne  Eow  stood  the  modest 
cottage  wherein  Turner  died.  Rossetti's  house 
8  101 


MY    STORY 

was  No.  16,  and  I  found  it  answering  in  exter- 
nal appearance  to  the  frank  description  he  had 
given  of  it.  It  seemed  to  be  the  oldest  house 
in  the  Walk,  and  the  exceptional  size  of  its  gate 
Ijiers  and  the  height  and  weight  of  its  gate  and 
railings  suggested  to  my  eye,  as  an  architect, 
that  perhaps  at  some  period  it  had  stood  alone, 
commanding  as  grounds  a  large  part  of  the 
space  occupied  by  the  houses  on  either  side. 

The  house  itself  was  a  plain  Queen  Anne 
erection,  much  mutilated  by  the  introduction 
of  unsightly  bow  windows,  the  brick  work  fall- 
ing into  decay,  the  paint  in  need  of  renewal, 
the  windows  dull  with  the  dust  of  months,  the 
sills  bearing  more  than  the  suspicion  of  cob- 
webs, the  angles  of  the  steps  to  the  porch  and 
the  untrodden  flags  of  the  little  court  leading 
up  to  them  overgrown  with  moss  and  weed, 
while  round  the  walls  and  up  the  reveals  of 
door  and  windows  were  creeping  the  tangled 
branches  of  the  wildest  ivy  that  ever  grew  un- 
touched by  shears. 

Such  was  the  exterior  of  the  house  of  the 
poet-painter  when  I  walked  up  to  it  on  the 
autumn  evening  of  my  earliest  visit,  and  the 
interior  of  the  house,  when  with  trembling 
heart  I  first  stepped  over  the  threshold,  seemed 
to  be  at  once  like  and  unlike  the  outside.    The 

102 


MY   FIRST   MEETING   WITH   ROSSETTI 

hall  had  a  puzzling  look  of  equal  nobility  and 
shabbiness,  for  the  floor  was  paved  with  white 
marble,  which  was  partly  covered  by  a  strip 
of  worn-out  cocoa-nut  matting.  Three  doors 
led  out  of  the  hall,  one  at  each  side  and  one 
in  front,  and  two  corridors  opened  into  it,  but 
there  was  no  sign  of  a  staircase,  and  neither 
was  there  any  daylight,  except  the  little  that 
was  borrowed  from  a  fanlight  which  looked 
into  the  porch. 

I  took  note  of  these  things  in  the  few  minutes 
I  stood  waiting  in  the  hall,  and  if  I  had  to  sum 
up  my  first  impressions  of  the  home  of  Ros- 
setti,  I  should  say  it  looked  like  a  house  that 
no  woman  had  ever  dwelt  in,  a  house  inhabited 
by  a  man  who  had  once  felt  a  vivid  interest  in 
life,  but  was  now  living  from  day  to  day. 

Very  soon  Rossetti  came  to  me  through  the 
doorway  in  front,  which  proved  to  be  the  en- 
trance to  his  studio.  Holding  out  both  hands 
and  crying  "  Hulloa,"  he  gave  me  that  cheery, 
hearty  greeting  which  I  have  come  to  recognise 
as  belonging  to  him  alone,  perhaps,  of  all  the 
men  I  have  ever  known.  Leading  the  way 
into  the  studio,  he  introduced  me  to  his  brother 
William,  who  was  there  on  one  of  the  evening 
visits  which,  at  intervals  of  a  week,  he  made 
then  with  unfailing  regularity. 

103 


]MY   STORY 

I  should  have  described  Eossetti,  at  that 
time,  as  a  man  who  looked  quite  ten  years 
older  than  his  actual  age  (fifty-two),  of  full 
middle  height  and  inclining  to  corpulence,  with 
a  roimd  face  that  ought,  one  thought,  to  be 
ruddy  but  was  pale ;  with  large  gray  eyes  that 
had  a  steady  introspective  look  and  were  sur- 
mounted by  broad  protrusive  brows,  and  divid- 
ed by  a  clearly  i^encilled  ridge  over  the  nose, 
which  was  well  cut  and  had  breathing  nostrils 
resembling  the  nostrils  of  a  high-bred  horse. 

His  mouth  and  chin  were  hidden  beneath  a 
heavy  moustache  and  an  abimdant  beard  which 
had  once  been  mixed  black-brown  and  auburn, 
but  were  now  thickly  streaked  with  gray.  His 
forehead  was  large,  round,  without  protuber- 
ances, and  very  gently  receding  to  where  thin 
black  curls  l)egan  to  roll  round  to  the  ears.  I 
thought  his  head  and  face  singularly  noble, 
and  from  the  eyes  upward  full  of  beauty. 

His  dress  was  not  conspicuous,  being  rather 
negligent  than  eccentric,  and  only  remarkable 
for  a  straight  sack  coat  (his  "painting  coat") 
buttoned  close  to  the  throat,  descending  at 
least  to  the  knees,  and  having  large  perpen- 
dicular pockets,  in  which  he  kept  his  hands  al- 
most constantly  while  he  walked  to  and  fro. 
His  voice,  even  in  the  preliminary  courtesies 

104 


MY   FIRST    MEETING   WITH   ROSSETTI 

of  conversation,  was,  I  thought,  the  richest  I 
had  ever  heard.  It  was  a  deep,  full  barytone, 
with  easy  modulations  and  undertones  of  in- 
finite softness  and  sweetness,  yet  capable,  as 
I  speedily  found,  of  almost  illimitable  compass. 

Such  was  Rossetti,  as  he  seemed  to  me  when 
I  saw  him  first — a  noticeable  man,  indeed,  an 
Englishman  in  his  stolid  build,  an  Italian  in  the 
dark  fire  of  his  face,  a  man  of  genius  in  the 
strength  and  individuality  which  expressed 
themselves  in  his  outer  jDersonality  without 
singularity  or  affectation. 

The  studio  was  a  large  irregular  room,  struc- 
turally puzzling  to  one  who  saw  it  for  the  first 
time.  Over  the  fireplace  and  at  either  side  of 
it  hung  a  number  of  drawings  in  chalk,  chiefly 
studies  of  female  heads,  all  very  beautiful,  and 
all  by  Rossetti  himself.  Easels  of  various  size, 
some  very  large,  bearing  partially  painted  pic- 
tures, stood  at  irregular  angles  nearly  all  over 
the  floor,  leaving  room  only  for  a  few  pieces 
of  furniture — a  large  sofa,  under  a  holland 
cover,  somewhat  baggy  and  soiled,  two  low 
easy  chairs,  similarly  apparelled,  a  large  book- 
case with  a  glass  front,  surmounted  by  a  yel- 
low copy  of  the  Stratford  bust  of  Shakespeare, 
two  carved  cabinets,  and  a  little  writing  desk 
and  cane-bottomed  chair  in  the  comer,  near  a 

105 


MY    STOEY 

small  window  which  was  heavily  darkened  by 
the  thick  foliage  of  the  trees  that  grew  in  the 
garden  beyond. 

As  I  had  arrived  late  and  the  light  was  fail- 
ing, Rossetti  immediately  drew  up  an  easel 
containing  a  picture  he  wished  me  to  see,  and  I 
recall  a  large  canvas  full  of  the  bright  sunshine 
of  spring,  with  a  beautiful  lady  sitting  reading 
in  a  tree  that  was  heavily  laden  with  pink  and 
white  blossom.  Remembering  the  sense  of 
the  ojoen  air  which  the  picture  conveyed,  I  can- 
not forget  the  pallid  face  of  the  painter  as  he 
stood  beside  it,  or  the  close  atmosphere  of  his 
studio,  with  its  smell  of  paint  and  the  musty 
odour  of  accumulated  treasures  lying  long  un- 
disturbed in  a  room  that  can  have  been  rarely 
visited  by  the  winds  of  heaven. 

I  helped  Rossetti  to  push  the  big  easel  out 
of  the  way.  Then  he  dropped  down  on  the  sofa 
at  full  length,  letting  his  head  lie  low  on  the 
cushion  and  throwing  his  feet  up  on  the  back. 
In  this  attitude — which  I  afterward  saw  was 
a  favourite  one  with  him — he  began  the  con- 
versation by  telling  me  with  various  humor- 
ous touches,  how  like  I  was  to  what  a  well- 
known  friend  of  his  had  been  at  my  age,  and 
then  he  bantered  me  for  several  minutes  on 
what  he  called  my  "  robustious "  appearance 

106 


MY   FIRST   MEETING   WITH   ROSSETTI 

compared  with  that  which  he  had  been  led 
to  expect  from  gloomy  reports  of  uncertain 
health.  It  was  all  done  in  the  easiest  conceiv- 
able way,  and  was  so  playful  and  so  natural, 
as  coming  from  a  great  and  famous  man  on  his 
first  meeting  with  a  young  fellow  half  his  age, 
who  regarded  him  with  a  reverence  only  modi- 
fied by  affection,  that  it  might  fairly  have  con- 
veyed any  impression  on  earth  save  the  right 
one,  that  Rossetti  was  a  bundle  of  nerves,  a 
creature  of  emotions  all  compact,  and  that,  at 
this  period,  a  visit  from  a  new  friend,  however 
harmless  and  insignificant,  was  an  ordeal  of 
almost  tragic  gravity  to  him. 

Then  one  by  one  he  glanced  at  certain  of  the 
more  personal  topics  that  had  arisen  in  the 
course  of  our  correspondence,  and  I  soon  saw 
that  he  was  a  ready,  fluent  and  graceful  talker, 
with  an  unusual  incisiveness  of  speech  which 
gave  the  effect  of  wit  even  when  it  was  not  wit. 
I  remember,  among  the  little  things  that  struck 
me  at  that  first  meeting  with  Rossetti,  a  trick 
he  had  of  snapping  his  long  fingers  as  he 
talked,  and  the  constant  presence  of  his  hands, 
which  were  small  and  smooth  and  delicate  as 
a  young  girl's,  with  tapering  fingers,  that  he 
seemed  to  be  always  looking  at  and  playing 
with. 

107 


MY   STORY 

Very  soon  the  talk  l)ecame  general,  his 
brother  William,  who  had  hitherto  been  silent, 
joining  in  it  at  intervals,  and  then  Rossetti 
spoke,  without  appearance  of  reserve,  of  the 
few  intimate  friends  who  frequented  his  house 
at  that  period,  telling  me,  among  other  things, 
that  Mr.  Watts  (now  Watts-Dunton)  had  a 
head  like  Napoleon's,  "  whom  he  detests,"  he 
said  with  a  chuckle;  that  Frederic  Shields 
was  as  hysterical  as  Shelley,  and  Ford  '^''^adox 
Brown,  whom  I  had  met,  as  sententious  c^  ^''. 
Johnson. 

I  thought  Rossetti  was  amusing  himself  by 
bantering  his  friends  in  their  absence,  in  the 
assured  confidence  that  he  was  doing  so  in  the 
presence  of  a  well-wisher;  but  it  was  interest- 
ing to  observe  that  after  any  particularly 
lively  sally,  or  dash  of  personal  ridicule,  he 
would  pause  in  the  midst  of  his  laughter,  which 
was  a  deep,  full-chested  roar,  to  say  something 
in  a  sober  tone  that  was  intended  to  convey  the 
idea  that  he  had  really  said  nothing  at  all. 

Contrary  to  his  declared  habit,  he  did  not 
dine  in  the  studio,  but  when  a  bright  young 
maid-servant  announced  the  dinner,  he  led  the 
way  to  one  of  the  two  rooms  entering  out  of 
the  hall,  a  square  apartment  of  moderate  size, 
apparently  all  green  in  colour,  carpet,  curtains, 

108 


o 
o 

o 


2 


2 

a 

O 


E-i 

CO 

O 


I 


MY   FIRST   MEETING   WITH   ROSSETTI 

walls,  and  furniture,  but  also  noticea])le  for 
many  mirrors,  most  of  them  round  and  beau- 
tiful. 

I  remember  that  as  we  dined,  Rossetti,  who 
seemed  to  be  in  the  best  of  spirits,  rattled  off 
one  or  two  of  the  rhymes,  now  called  "  Lim- 
ericks," at  the  making  of  which,  nol)ody  who 
ever  attempted  that  form  of  amusement  has 
ever  been  known  to  match  him.  He  could  turn 
them  out  as  fast  as  he  could  talk,  with  such 
point,  such  humour,  such  building  up  to  a  cli- 
max, that  even  when  they  verged  on  the  per- 
sonal, or  yet  the  profane  (as  I  fear  they  some- 
times did),  it  was  impossible  to  receive  the  last 
word  without  a  shout.  I  recall  that  on  this 
occasion  he  recited  for  my  amusement  a  rhj^me 
he  had  made  on  a  poet  friend  who  had  lost  his 
hair,  and  with  the  sting  of  it  still  in  my  mind 
I  should  not  wonder  if  the  almost  fatal  facility 
he  had  in  the  writing  of  satirical  doggerel 
sometimes  cost  the  poet  dear. 

After  dinner,  in  the  studio,  I  asked  Rossetti 
to  fulfil  his  promise  to  read  some  of  his  new 
ballads  to  me.  He  responded  readily,  like  a 
man  who  was  glad  to  read  his  poetry  to  an 
admirer,  only  apologising  to  his  brother,  who 
had  heard  everything  before. 

Unlocking  a  section  of  the  big  book-case,  and 

109 


MY    STORY 

again  imlocking  an  old  carved  oak  box  tliat 
stood  on  one  of  the  shelves,  he  took  out  a  small 
manuscript  volume,  and  after  putting  on  a 
second  pair  of  spectacles  over  the  pair  he  usu- 
ally wore,  he  read  "  The  White  Ship." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  never  heard  any- 
thing at  all  equal  to  Rossetti's  elocution,  if 
reading  so  entirely  without  conscious  art  can 
be  called  by  that  name.  The  poet's  deep,  rich 
voice  lent  music  to  the  music  of  the  verse;  it 
rose  and  fell  in  the  passages  descrij^tive  of  the 
wreck  with  something  of  the  surge  and  sibila- 
tion  of  the  sea  itself ;  in»  the  tenderer  passages, 
it  was  as  soft  and  low  as  a  girl's,  and  in  the 
pathetic  stanzas  at  the  close,  it  was  indescrib- 
ably moving. 

The  evening  had  gone  by  the  time  the  ballad 
was  ended,  and  when  William  Rossetti  rose  to 
go,  I  got  up  to  go  with  him.  Then  it  was  ar- 
ranged that  on  returning  through  London  after 
my  holiday  on  the  South  coast  I  should  dine 
with  Rossetti  again  and  sleep  the  night  at  his 
house.  He  came  into  the  hall  to  see  us  off,  and 
down  to  the  last  his  high  spirits  never  failed 
him.  I  recall  some  further  bantering  as  I  was 
going  out  at  the  door,  and  the  full-chested 
laugh  that  followed  us  over  the  little  paved 
court  between  the  house  and  the  gate. 

110 


MY   FIRST    MEETING   WITH   ROSSETTI 

Our  little  night  journey,  William's  and  mine, 
in  the  hansom  cab  which  was  to  drop  me  at  the 
door  of  the  "  hole-and-cornerest "  of  all  hotels, 
which,  as  a  young  countryman,  ignorant  of 
London,  I  had  somehow  ferreted  out,  is  made 
ever  memorable  to  me  by  a  dazed  sense  I  had 
of  having  seen  and  spoken  to  and  spent  an 
evening  with — what  I  thought — the  greatest 
man  on  earth.  That  is  a  sensation  that  only 
comes  once  perhaps  to  any  of  us,  and  it  was 
after  my  first  meeting  with  Rossetti  that  it 
came  to  me. 


CHAPTER    III 

A    NIGHT    AT    CHEYNE    WALK 

A  BOUT  a  fortnight  later  I  returned  to 
/-%  Clieyne  Walk,  and  was  welcomed  with 
the  same  cheery  "  Hulloa "  from  Ros- 
setti,  who  was  lying,  as  I  entered  the  studio 
in  the  early  evening,  in  his  favourite  attitude 
on  the  couch.  He  was  alone  on  this  occasion, 
and  notwithstanding  the  warmth  of  my  recep- 
tion, I  noticed  that  he  was  in  some  respects  a 
changed  man,  his  spirits  being  lower,  his  face 
more  weary,  even  his  voice  more  tired. 

In  answer  to  inquiries  as  to  where  I  had  been 
and  what  I  had  been  doing,  I  talked,  with  the 
animation  of  a  young  man  interested  in  life 
in  many  aspects,  of  the  delightful  Halliwell- 
Phillipps  (with  whom  I  had  been  staying  at 
Brighton)  and  his  group  of  good  old  Shakes- 
pearean dry-as-dusts,  and  then  of  Henry  Ir- 
ving, who  was  rising  into  celebrity  as  a  Shakes- 
pearean actor.  Rossetti  lay  on  the  sofa  and 
listened,  drojoping  out  occasional  observations, 

112 


A   NIGHT    AT    CHEYNE   WALK 

such  as  that  Miss  Herbert,  an  actress  and  a 
former  friend,  had  sjioken  long  ago  of  a  young 
fellow  in  her  company  named  Irving,  predict- 
ing great  success  for  him. 

But  it  was  soon  made  clear  to  me  that  the 
poet  was  more  amused  by  the  impetuous  rush 
as  of  fresh  air  from  the  outer  world  which 
came  to  him  with  my  company  than  interested 
in  the  affairs  of  the  outer  world  itself.  Indeed, 
I  speedily  saw  that  Rossetti  knew  very  little 
of  what  was  going  on  outside  the  close  atmos- 
phere of  his  own  house  and  the  circle  of  his 
literarv  and  artistic  activities,  and  that  he  did 
not  care  to  know. 

Expecting  my  return,  he  had  pulled  a  huge 
canvas  into  a  position  in  which  it  could  be  seen, 
and  it  was  then  I  saw,  for  the  first  time,  the 
l^ainter's  most  important  picture,  "  Dante's 
Dream."  The  effect  produced  upon  me  by 
that  wonderful  work,  so  simple  in  its  scheme, 
so  conventional  in  its  composition,  yet  so  noble 
in  its  feeling  and  so  profound  in  its  emotion, 
has  probably  been  repeated  a  thousand  times 
since  in  minds  more  capable  of  appreciating 
the  technical  qualities  of  the  painter's  art;  but 
few  or  none  can  know  what  added  power  of 
appeal  the  great  picture  had  as  I  saw  it  then, 
under  the  waning  light  of  an  autumn  afternoon, 

113 


MY    STORY 

in  the  painter's  studio,  so  full  of  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  picture  itself,  and  with  the  painter 
beside  it,  so  clearly  a  man  out  of  another  age. 

Rossetti  told  me  something  of  the  history  of 
"  Dante's  Dream  " ;  how  it  had  been  commis- 
sioned by  a  friend,  and  returned  in  exchange 
for  a  replica  because  of  its  great  size,  which 
made  it  practically  impossible  for  a  private  col- 
lection. Whereupon  I  decided,  that  if  any  ef- 
forts of  mine  could  avail,  Liverpool  should  buy 
the  picture  for  its  jjublic  gallery. 

"  Does  your  work  take  much  out  of  you  in 
jjliysical  energy?"  I  asked. 

"  Not  my  painting,  certainly,"  said  Rossetti, 
"  though  in  earlier  years  it  tormented  me  more 
than  enough.  Now  I  paint  by  a  set  of  unwrit- 
ten but  clearly  defined  rules,  which  I  could  teach 
to  any  man  as  systematically  as  you  could  teach 
arithmetic." 

"  Still,"  I  said,  "  there's  a  good  deal  in  a  pic- 
ture like  this  beside  what  you  can  do  by  rule 
—eh?" 

I  laughed,  he  laughed,  and  then  he  said,  as 
nearly  as  I  can  remember: 

"  Conception,  no  doubt ;  but  beyond  that,  not 
much.  Painting,  after  all,  is  the  craft  of  a  su- 
j)erior  carpenter.  The  part  of  a  picture  that 
is  not  mechanical  is  often  trivial  enough."    And 

114 


A    NIGHT    AT    CHEYNE    WALK 

then,  with  the  suspicion  of  a  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
he  added: 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder,  now,  if  you  imagine 
that  one  comes  down  in  a  fine  frenzy  every 
morning  to  daub  canvas." 

More  laughter  on  both  sides,  and  then  I  said 
I  certainly  imagined  that  a  superior  carpenter 
would  find  it  hard  to  paint  another  "  Dante's 
Dream,"  which  I  considered  the  best  example 
I  had  yet  seen  of  the  English  school. 

"  Friendly  nonsense,"  replied  my  frank  host ; 
"  there  is  now  no  English  school  whatever." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  if  you  deny  the  name  to 
others  who  lay  more  claim  to  it,  will  you  not 
at  least  allow  it  to  the  three  or  four  painters 
who  started  with  you  in  life — the  pre-Raphael- 
ites,  you  know? " 

"  Not  at  all,  unless  it  is  to  Brown,  and  he's 
more  French  than  English.  Hunt  and  Jones 
have  no  more  claim  to  it  than  I  have.  Pre- 
Eaphaelites!  A  group  of  young  fellows  who 
couldn't  draw !  "  With  this  came  one  of  his 
full-chested  laughs,  and  then  quickly  behind  it : 

"  As  for  all  the  prattle  about  pre-Raphaelit- 
ism,  I  confess  to  you  I  am  weary  of  it,  and  long 
have  been.  VThj  should  we  go  on  talking  about 
the  visionary  vanities  of  half-a-dozen  boys! 
We've  all  grown  out  of  them,  I  hope,  by  now." 

115 


MY    STORY 

We  dined  in  the  studio  that  night,  and  I  re- 
call the  suggestion  of  my  host's  Italian  origin 
in  the  thick  pipes  of  macaroni,  cooked  dry  and 
then  smothered  in  thick  layers  of  cheese,  and 
the  red  Chianti,  diluted  with  water;  but  there 
was  no  sweet  or  coffee,  and  Rossetti  did  not 
smoke. 

Returning,  after  dinner,  to  my  inquiry  as  to 
whether  his  work  took  much  out  of  him,  he  re- 
plied that  his  poetry  usually  did. 

"  In  that  respect,"  he  said,  "  I  am  the  reverse 
of  Swinburne.  For  his  method  of  production, 
inspiration  is,  indeed,  the  word.  With  me  the 
case  is  different.  I  lie  on  the  couch,  the  racked 
and  tortured  medium,  never  permitted  an  in- 
stant's relief  until  the  thing  in  hand  is  finished." 

Then,  at  my  request,  taking  the  same  little 
manuscript  volume  from  the  small  oak  box  in 
the  locked  section  of  the  bookcase,  he  read  his 
unpublished  ballad,  "  Rose  Mary,"  telling  me  it 
had  been  written  in  the  country  shortly  after 
the  publication  of  his  first  volume  of  poems, 
that  it  had  occupied  only  three  weeks  in  the 
writing,  and  that  the  physical  prostration  en- 
suing had  been  more  than  he  would  care  to  go 
through  again. 

He  then  read  to  me  a  great  body  of  the  new 
sonnets,  which  in  a  forthcoming  volume  he  in- 

116 


A    NIGHT    AT    CHEYNE    WALK 

tended  to  incorporate  in  a  section  to  he  called 
"  The  House  of  Life."  Sitting  in  that  studio, 
listening  to  the  rise  and  fall  of  his  wonderful 
voice,  and  looking  up  at  the  chalk  drawings 
that  hung  on  the  walls,  I  realised  how  truly 
he  had  said  in  correspondence  that  the  feeling 
pervading  his  pictures  was  such  as  his  poetry 
ought  to  suggest. 

Once  or  twice,  after  the  emotion  of  the  writ- 
ten words  had  broken  up  his  voice,  he  would 
pause  and  laugh  a  little  (a  constrained  laugh 
in  his  throat),  and  say: 

"  I  dare  say  you  think  it  odd  to  hear  an  old 
fellow  read  such  love  poetry,  as  much  of  this 
is,  but  I  may  tell  you  that  the  larger  part  of 
it  was  written  when  I  was  as  young  as  you 
are." 

I  remember  that  he  read,  with  especial  emo- 
tion and  a  voice  that  could  barely  support  itself, 
the  pathetic  sonnet  entitled  "  Without  Her  "  : 

"  What  of  her  glass  without  her?  .  .  . 
.  .  .  Her  pillowed  place 
Without  her?  .   .  . 
What  of  the  heart  without  her?  .  .  .'" 

The  lines  came  with  tears  of  voice,  subsiding 
at  length  into  something  like  a  suppressed  sob, 
and  they  were  followed  by  an  interval  of  si- 
9  117 


MY    STORY 

lence.  But  after  a  moment,  as  if  trying  to  ex- 
13lain  away  his  emotion  and  to  deprive  it  of 
any  personal  reference  in  my  mind,  he  said : 

"  All  poetry  affects  me  deeply,  and  often  to 
tears.  It  doesn't  need  to  be  pathetic,  or  yet 
tender,  to  produce  this  result." 

Then  he  went  on  to  say  that  he  had  Imown 
in  his  life  two  men,  and  two  only,  who  were 
similarly  sensitive — Tennyson,  and  his  friend, 
Bell  Scott. 

"  I  once  heard  Tennyson  read  '  Maud,' "  he 
said,  "  and  while  the  fiery  passages  were  given 
with  a  voice  and  vehemence  which  he  alone 
could  compass,  the  softer  passages  and  the 
songs  made  the  tears  run  down  his  cheeks  like 
rain.  Morris  is  a  fine  reader,  too,  and  so  of  his 
kind,  although  a  little  prone  to  sing-song,  is 
Swinburne.  Browning  both  reads  and  talks 
well — at  least  he  did  so  when  I  knew  him  in- 
timately as  a  young  man." 

I  asked  if  he  had  ever  heard  Ruskin  read, 
and  he  replied : 

"  I  must  have  done  so,  but  I  remember  noth- 
ing clearly.  On  one  occasion,  however,  I  heard 
him  deliver  a  speech,  and  that  was  something 
never  to  forget.  When  we  were  young  we 
helped  Frederick  Dennison  Maurice  by  taking 
classes  at  his  Working  Men's  College,  and  there 

118 


A   NIGHT    AT    CHEYNE    WALK 

Charles  Kingsley  and  others  made  speeches  and 
delivered  lectures.  Ruskin  was  asked  to  do 
something  of  the  kind,  and  at  length  consented. 
He  made  no  sort  of  preparation  for  the  occa- 
sion; I  knew  he  did  not — we  were  together  at 
his  father's  house  the  whole  of  the  day.  At 
night  we  drove  down  to  the  college,  and  then 
he  made  the  most  finished  speech  I  ever  heard. 
I  doubted  at  the  time  if  anj''  written  words  of 
his  were  equal  to  it.  Such  flaming  diction,  such 
emphasis,  such  appeal !  Yet  he  had  written  his 
first  and  second  volumes  of  '  Modem  Painters  ' 
bv  that  time." 

There  was  a  certain  incisiveness  in  Rossetti's 
conversation  of  which  I  try  in  vain  to  convey 
more  than  a  suggestion.  He  had  both  wit  and 
humour,  but  these  qualities  during  the  time  I 
knew  him  were  only  occasionally  present,  while 
his  incisiveness  (sometimes  giving  the  surprise 
of  wit)  was  always  conspicuous. 

On  this  night  of  my  second  visit  we  sat  up 
until  four  in  the  morning,  no  unaccustomed 
hour  for  him,  as  I  afterward  learned,  for  he 
had  never  at  any  period  been  an  early  riser, 
and  was  then  more  than  ever  prone  to  reverse 
the  natural  order  of  sleeping  and  waking  hours. 

"  I  lie  as  long,  or  say  as  late,  as  Doctor  John- 
son used  to,"  he  said.    "  You  shall  never  know, 

119 


MY   STORY 

until  5^011  discover  it  for  yourself,  at  what  hour 
I  rise." 

And  now  I  do  not  feel  that  I  can  omit  to 
mention  that  just  as  we  were  getting  up  to  go 
to  bed,  Rossetti  revealed  a  new  side  of  his  char- 
acter, or,  more  properly,  a  new  phase  of  his 
mind,  which  gave  me  infinite  anxiety  and  dis- 
tress. Branching  off  at  that  late  hour  from  an 
entirely  foreign  topic,  he  begged  me  to  tell  him 
the  facts  of  an  unlucky  debate  in  which  I  had 
long  before  been  engaged  on  a  public  platform 
with  some  one  who  had  attacked  him.  He  had 
read  a  short  report  of  what  had  passed  at  a 
time  when  both  my  name  and  the  name  of  his 
assailant  were  unlaiown  to  him,  and  now  he 
wished  to  hear  everything.  I  tried  to  avoid 
a  circumstantial  statement,  being  forewarned 
by  his  brother,  on  that  night  ride  after  my  first 
visit,  of  the  poet's  peculiar  sensitiveness  to 
criticism ;  but  Rossetti  was  "  of  imagination 
all  compact,"  and  my  obvious  desire  to  shelve 
the  subject  was  plainly  suggesting  to  his  mind 
a  thousand  inferences  that  were  infinitely  more 
damaging  than  the  fact.  To  avoid  this  result 
I  told  him  all,  and  there  was  not  much  to  tell. 

The  lecture  on  his  poetry,  which  led  to  the 
beginning  of  our  friendship,  had  been  presided 
over  on  the  platform  at  Liverpool  by  a  public 

120 


A   NIGHT    AT    CHEYNE   WALK 

man  of  more  than  local  celebrity  as  a  patron 
and  critic  of  art,  and  at  the  close  of  my  pas- 
sionate panegyric,  in  which  I  had  perhaps  dwelt 
too  insistently  on  the  spiritual  influences  ani- 
mating the  poet's  work,  my  chairman  rose,  and, 
as  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  said: 

"  We  have  all  listened  with  interest  and  ad- 
miration to  the  eloquent  .  .  ."  (etc.),  "but  it 
would  be  wrong  of  me  not  to  warn  the  audience 
against  the  teaching  of  the  lecturer.  So  far 
from  Rossetti  being  animated  mainly,  or  even 
largely,  by  spiritual  passion,  he  is  the  most 
sensuous,  not  to  say  sensual*,  of  English  poets, 
and  in  his  other  character  as  artist  I  can  best 
describe  him  as  the  greatest  animal  painter 
alive." 

This  and  a  few  similar  strictures,  partly  pro- 
voked, it  may  be,  by  the  misdirection  of  my  own 
eulogy,  followed  by  a  heated  reply  from  myself, 
rapturously  applauded  by  an  audience  which 
was  probably  indifferent  to  the  question  in  dis- 
pute, and  interested  only  in  the  unusual  spec- 
tacle of  a  stand-up  fight  between  the  young 
lecturer  and  the  city  father,  with  a  word  or  two 
of  brusque  characterisation  aimed  at  "  Jenny," 
whom  I  had  perhaps  dwelt  with  as  a  soiled 
Madonna,  was  all  there  was  to  repeat  in  the 
way  of  an  attack. 

121 


MY    STORY 

Eossetti  listened  but  too  eagerly  to  my  nar- 
rative, with  drooped  head  and  changing  colour, 
and  then,  in  a  voice  slower,  softer,  and  more 
charged,  perhaps,  with  emotion  than  I  had 
heard  before,  said  it  was  the  old  story,  which 
began  ten  years  before  and  would  go  on  until 
he  had  been  hunted  and  hounded  into  his  grave. 

Startled,  and  indeed  appalled,  by  so  grave  a 
view  of  what  seemed  to  me,  after  all,  an  un- 
important incident,  and  no  more  than  an  error 
of  critical  judgment,  coupled  with  some  intem- 
perance of  condemnation  for  which  my  own 
heat  had  been  partly  to  blame,  I  prayed  of  him 
to  think  no  more  of  the  matter,  reproached  my- 
self with  having  yielded  to  his  importunity,  and 
begged  of  him  to  remember  that  if  one  man 
held  the  opinions  I  had  repeated,  many  men 
held  contrary  ones. 

"  It  was  right  of  you  to  tell  me  when  I  asked 
you,"  he  said,  "  though  my  friends  usually 
kee])  such  facts  from  my  knowledge.  As  to 
*  Jenny,'  it  is  a  sermon,  nothing  less.  As  I 
say,  it  is  a  sermon,  and  on  a  great  world,  to 
most  men  unknown,  though  few  consider  them- 
selves ignorant  of  it.  But  of  this  conspiracy 
to  persecute  me — what  remains  to  say  except 
that  it  is  widespread  and  remorseless?  One 
cannot  but  feel  it." 

122 


A    NIGHT    AT    CHEYNE    WALK 

I  assured  liim  that  there  existed  no  conspiracy 
to  persecute  him ;  that  he  had  ardent  upholders 
everywiiere,  though  it  was  true  that  few  men 
had  found  crueller  critics.  He  shook  his  head, 
and  said  I  knew  that  what  he  had  alleged  was 
true,  namely,  that  an  organised  conspiracy  ex- 
isted, having  for  its  object  to  annoy  and  injure 
him,  and  to  hold  him  up  to  the  public  execration 
as  an  evil  influence  on  his  time.  So  tyrannical, 
he  said,  had  the  conspiracy  become  that  it  had 
altered  the  habits  of  his  life,  and  practically  con- 
fined him  for  years  to  the  limits  of  his  own  home. 

Growing  impatient  of  this  delusion,  so  tena- 
ciously held  to  against  all  show  of  reason,  I 
forgot  the  disparity  of  our  ages  and  told  him 
that  what  he  was  saying  was  no  more  than  the 
fever  of  a  morbid  brain,  brought  about  by  his 
reclusive  habits  of  life,  by  shunning  intercourse 
with  all  the  world  save  some  half-dozen  or  more 
intimate  friends. 

"  You  tell  me,"  I  said,  "  that  j^ou  have  rarely 
been  outside  these  walls  for  years,  and  mean- 
while your  brain  has  been  breeding  a  host  of 
hallucinations  that  are  like  cobwebs  in  a  dark 
comer.  You  have  only  to  go  out  again,  and 
the  fresh  air  will  blow  all  these  things  away." 

He  smiled,  perhaps  at  the  boldness  of  youth, 
a  sad  smile,  and  then,  going  on  again  for  some 

123 


MY    STORY 

moments  longer  in  the  same  strain,  lie  came  to 
closer  quarters  and  distressed  me  by  naming 
as  enemies  two  public  men,  one  of  them  the 
outstanding  statesman  of  the  time  (who  had 
lately  given  a  pension  to  the  critic  who  had 
most  savagely  abused  him),  and  three  or  four 
authors  of  high  rej^ute,  who  had  been  his  close 
friends  in  earlier  life,  but  had  fallen  away  from 
him  in  later  years,  owing  to  circumstances  that 
had  no  relation  to  alienated  regard. 

"  You're  all  wrong,"  I  said.  "  I'm  sure  you're 
all  wrong." 

"  Ah,  well,  let's  go  to  bed,"  said  Rossetti;  and 
I  could  see  that  his  conviction  was  unshaken 
and  his  delusions  remained. 

We  took  candles  from  a  table  in  the  hall  and 
went  up  a  narrow  and  tortuous  staircase,  which 
was  otherwise  dark,  to  a  landing  from  which 
many  rooms  seemed  to  open,  so  large  was  the 
house  in  which  Rossetti  lived  alone,  except  for 
a  cook  and  two  maid-servants. 

"  You  are  to  sleep  in  Watts's  room  to-night," 
he  said,  and  then  he  suggested  that  before  going 
to  my  own  bedroom,  I  should  take  a  look  at  his. 
I  cheerfully  assented,  but  walking  through  the 
long  corridor  that  led  to  the  poet's  room,  we 
had  to  pass  another  apartment,  and  after  a 
moment's  pause,  Rossetti  opened  the  door  and 

124 


A   NIGHT   AT    CHEYNE   WALK 

we  went  in.  It  was  the  drawing-room,  a  very 
large  chamber,  l)arely  illuminated  by  the  can- 
dles in  our  hands,  and  full  of  the  musty  odour 
of  a  place  long  shut  up. 

Suspended  from  the  middle  of  the  ceiling 
there  hung  a  huge  Venetian  candelabrum,  from 
whose  facets  the  candle  light  glittered,  and  on 
the  walls  were  a  number  of  small  water-colour 
drawings  in  plain  oak  frames.  Rossetti  drew 
me  up  to  the  pictures,  and  I  remember  that 
they  seemed  to  me  rather  crude  in  colour  and 
in  drawing,  but  very  touching  in  sentiment 
(one  in  particular  representing  a  young  girl 
parting  from  her  lover  on  the  threshold  of  a 
convent,  being  deeply  charged  with  feeling), 
and  that  I  said : 

"  I  should  have  thought  that  the  man  who 
painted  these  pictures  was  rather  a  poet  than 
a  painter — who  was  it?" 

Eossetti,  who  was  standing  before  the  draw- 
ing, as  I  see  him  still,  in  the  dark  room  with 
the  candle  in  his  hand,  said,  in  a  low  voice: 
"  It  was  my  wife.    She  had  great  genius." 

His  own  bedroom  was  entered  from  another 
and  smaller  room,  which  he  told  me  he  used  as 
a  breakfast  room.  The  outer  room  was  made 
fairly  bright  by  a  glittering  chandelier  (the 
property  at  one  time,  he  said,  of  David  Gar- 

125 


MY    STORY 

rick).  By  the  rustle  of  the  trees  against  the 
window  pane  one  realised  that  it  overlooked 
the  garden.  But  the  inner  room  was  dark  with 
heavy  hangings  around  the  walls,  as  well  as 
about  the  bed  (a  black  four-poster),  and  thick 
velvet  curtains  before  the  windows,  so  that  the 
candles  we  carried  seemed  unable  to  light  it, 
and  our  voices  sounded  muffled  and  thick.  An 
enormous  black  oak  chimneypiece,  of  curious 
design,  having  an  ivory  crucifix  on  the  largest 
of  its  ledges,  covered  a  part  of  one  side  of  the 
room  and  reached  to  the  ceiling.  Cabinets,  a 
bath,  and  the  usual  furniture  of  a  bedroom 
occupied  places  about  the  floor,  and  in  the 
middle  of  it,  before  a  little  couch,  there  was 
a  small  table  on  which  stood  a  wired  lantern 
containing  a  candle,  which  Rossetti  lit  from 
the  open'  one  in  his  hand — another  candle  ly- 
ing by  its  side.  I  remarked  that  he  probably 
burned  a  light  all  night,  and  he  said  that  was  so. 

"  My  curse  is  insonmia,"  he  added.  "  Two 
or  three  hours  hence  I  shall  get  up  and  lie  on 
the  couch,  and,  to  pass  away  a  weary  hour, 
read  this  book  "  (a  volume  of  Boswell's  "  John- 
son "  which  he  had  taken  out  of  the  bookcase 
as  we  left  the  studio). 

Then  I  saw  that  on  the  table  were  two  small 
bottles,  sealed  and  la])elled,   and  l)eside  them 

12G 


A    NIGHT    AT    CHEYNE    WALK 

was  a  little  measuring  glass.  Without  looking 
further,  but  with  a  painful  suspicion  over  me, 
I  asked  if  that  was  his  medicine. 

"  They  say  there's  a  skeleton  in  every  cup- 
board," he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  That's  mine ; 
it's  chloral." 

When  I  reached  the  room  I  was  to  occupy 
for  the  rest  of  the  night,  I  found  it,  like  Ros- 
setti's'  bedroom,  heavy  with  hangings  and  black 
with  antique  picture  panels,  having  a  ceiling 
so  high  as  to  be  out  of  all  reach  and  sight,  and 
so  dark  from  various  causes  that  the  candle 
seemed  only  to  glitter  in  it. 

Presently  Kossetti,  who  had  left  me  in  my 
room,  came  back,  for  no  purpose  that  I  can 
remember  except  to  say  that  he  had  much  en- 
joyed my  visit,  and  I  replied  that  I  should 
never  forget  it. 

"  If  you  decide  to  settle  in  London,"  he  said, 
"  I  trust  you'll  come  and  live  with  me,  and  then 
many  such  evenings  must  remove  the  memory 
of  this  one." 

I  laughed,  for  what  he  so  generously  hinted 
at  seemed  to  me  the  remotest  contingency. 

"  I  have  just  taken  sixty  grains  of  chloral," 
he  said,  as  he  was  going  out.  "  In  four  hours 
I  shall  take  sixty  more,  and  in  four  hours  after 
that  yet  another  sixty." 

127 


MY    STORY 

"Doesn't  the  dose  increase  with  you?"  I 
asked. 

"  It  has  not  done  so  perceptibly  in  recent 

years.     I  judge  I've  taken  more  chloral  than 

any  man  whatever.     Marshall "    (his  medical 

man)  "  says  if  I  were  put  into  a  Turkish  bath, 

1^     I  should  sweat  it  at  every  pore." 

As  he  said  this,  standing-  half  outside  the 
threshold,  there  was  something  in  his  tone  and 
laugh  suggesting  that  he  was  even  proud  of 
the  accomplishment.  To  me  it  was  a  frightful 
revelation,  accounting  largely,  if  not  entirely, 
for  what  had  puzzled  and  distressed  me  in  the 
delusions  I  have  referred  to. 

And  so,  after  four  in  the  morning,  amid  the 
odour  of  bygone  ages,  with  thoughts  of  that 
big  and  almost  empty  house,  of  the  servants 
somewhere  out  of  all  reach  and  sound,  of  Ros- 
,  setti  in  his  muffled  room,  of  that  wired  lantern, 
and  the  two  bottles  of  chloral,  I  fell  asleep. 

When  I  awoke  in  the  morning,  the  white  day- 
light was  coming  into  my  dark  bedroom  through 
the  chinks  of  the  closed  shutters,  which,  being 
opened,  disclosed  a  garden  so  large  and  so  com- 
pletely encompassed  by  trees  as  to  hide  almost 
entirelv  the  surrounding  houses.  Remembering 
what  I  had  heard  of  the  menagerie  of  wild  birds 
and  tame  beasts  which  Rossetti  used  to  keep 

128 


A    NIGHT    AT    CHEYNE    WALK 

in  this  garden,  I  went  down  before  breakfast 
to  look  at  it. 

The  garden  was  of  a  piece  with  what  I  had 
seen  of  the  house.  A  beautiful  avenue  of  lime- 
trees  opened  into  a  grass  plot  of  nearly  an  acre 
in  extent.  The  trees  were  just  as  Nature  made 
them,  and  so  was  the  grass,  which  was  lying, 
in  its  broad  blades,  long  and  dry  and  withered, 
in  ugly  tufts,  with  weeds  creeping  up  in  the 
dry  places,  and  moss  growing  on  the  gravel 
of  the  path.  The  wild  birds  and  tame  beasts 
were  gone,  but  the  sparrows  were  chirping  from . 
the  trees  in  the  sunshine  of  the  clear  autmnn 
morning,  and  one  little  linnet  was  singing  from 
a  bough  of  the  chestnut  that  looked  in  at  the 
window  of  Rossetti's  bedroom,  still  blind  with 
its  closed  shutters,  though  the  hour  was  now 
late. 

A  pathway  ran  near  to  the  wall  round  the 
four  sides  of  the  garden,  and  here,  as  I  heard 
the  night  before,  Rossetti  took  his  only  fresh 
air  and  exercise,  walking  six  times  about  the 
enclosure  every  day.  So  quiet,  indeed  so  dead, 
was  the  overgrown  place  that  it  was  difficult 
to  believe  it  was  in  the  heart  of  London,  and, 
looking  up  at  that  shuttered  window,  it  was 
easy  to  wish  it  was  not. 

But  if  the  back  of  the  house  was  silent,  the 

129 


MY   STORY 

front  of  it  was  full  enough  of  life.  I  break- 
fasted in  the  little  green  dining-room — the 
room  of  the  round  mirrors — and  it  was  flooded 
with  sunshine,  and  even  deafened  with  noise — 
the  rattle  of  tradesmen's  carts  and  the  whoop 
of  the  butcher  as  he  was  scudding  down  the 
Walk. 

Before  leaving  the  house  I  went  into  the 
studio  again  to  take  another  look  at  the  great 
"  Dante,"  and  the  silent  place,  with  its  faint 
odour  of  paint,  its  canvases  full  of  glorious 
colour,  its  chalk  drawings  in  black  and  red  of 
women  with  beautiful  but  melancholy  faces, 
seemed  to  sweep  one  back  again  in  a  moment 
to  some  Italian  city  of  three  centuries  ago. 

When  I  was  about  to  leave  the  house  at  a 
late  hour  that  morning,  Rossetti  was  not  yet 
stirring;  but  his  housekeeper  (who  was  also  his 
cook),  an  elderly  l)ody,  nervous  and  anxious 
and  obviously  perplexed  by  the  conditions  of 
her  life  in  that  strange  house  with  a  master 
of  exceptional  habits,  came  to  me  with  a  letter 
which  she  said  she  had  found  lying  on  the  table 
in  the  outer  room  where  Rossetti  took  his 
breakfast.  It  was  a  parting  message  from  the 
poet,  probably  written  in  that  interval  of  wake- 
fulness in  the  middle  of  the  night  when,  as  he 
had  told  me,  he  got  up  and  read  on  the  couch. 

130 


A   NIGHT   AT    CHEYNE   WALK 

My  Dear  Caine. — 

I  forgot  to  say — Don't  please,  spread  details  as  to 
the  story  of  Rose  Mary.  I  don't  want  it  to  be  stale 
or  to  get  forestalled  in  the  traveling  of  report  from 
mouth  to  mouth.  I  hope  it  won't  be  too  long  before 
you  visit  town  again — I  will  not  for  an  instant  question 
that  you  will  then  visit  me  also.  D.  G.  R. 

I  do  not  think  anybody  who  has  realised  (as, 
indeed,  should  be  most  easy)  the  space  that 
divided  me — a  young  fellow,  unknown  and  but 
half  his  age — from  this  great  and  illustrious 
man,  will  wonder  that  he  was  absolutely  irre- 
sistible to  me;  but  if  I  have  to  formulate  the 
emotions  which  possessed  me  as  I  left  his  house 
on  the  occasion  of  this  second  visit,  I  will  say 
that  it  was  not  so  much  his  genius  as  his  un- 
hajopiness  that  held  me  as  by  a  spell. 

Before  this  I  had  been  attracted  by  admira- 
tion of  his  great  gifts,  but  now  I  was  drawn 
to  him  by  something  very  akin  to  pity  for  his 
isolation  and  suffering.  Not  that  at  this  time 
he  made  demand  of  much  compassion.  Health 
was  apparently  whole  with  him,  his  spirits  were 
good,  and  his  energies  were  at  their  best.  He 
had  not  yet  known  the  full  bitterness  of  the 
Shadowed  Valley;  not  yet  learned  what  it  was 
to  hunger  for  any  cheerful  society  that  would 
relieve  him  of  the  burden  of  the  flesh.    All  that 

131 


MY    STORY 

came  later,  and  meantime  Rossetti  was  to  me 
the  most  fascinating,  the  most  inspiring,  the 
most  affectionate,  and  the  most  magnetic  of 
men. 

Next  morning  I  was  at  work  with  my  draw- 
ing-board and  T-square  in  the  little  office  over- 
looking the  builder's  yard,  busy  with  workmen 
and  carts  and  the  commonplace  traffic  of  mod- 
ern life. 


CHAPTER   IV 

I    BECOME    EOSSETTl's    HOUSEMATE 

THE  better  part  of  a  year  passed  before 
I  saw  Rossetti  again,  but  meantime  I 
was  in  constant  correspondence  with 
him,  so  that  the  continuity  of  our  intercourse 
was  never  broken  for  so  much  as  a  day.  Long 
afterward,  when  he  was  very  ill,  he  said  to 
me: 

"  How  well  I  remember  the  beginning  of  our 
correspondence,  and  how  little  did  I  think  it 
would  lead  to  such  relations  between  us  as  have 
ensued!  T  was  at  that  time  very  solitary  and 
depressed  from  various  causes,  and  the  letters 
of  a  well-wisher  so  young  and  so  ardent,  though 
unknown  to  me  personally,  brought  a  good  deal 
of  comfort." 

"  Your  letters,"  I  said,  "  were  very  valuable 
to  me." 

"  Mine  to  you,"  he  answered,  "  were  among 
the  largest  body  of  literary  letters  I  ever  wrote, 
others  being  often  letters  on  personal  subjects." 
10  133 


MY    STORY 

"  And  so  admirable  in  themselves,"  I  added, 
"  that  many  of  them  would  bear  to  be  printed 
exactly  as  yon  penned  them." 

"  That,"  he  said,  "  will  be  for  you  some  day 
to  decide." 

Later  still,  I  remember,  at  a  very  solemn 
moment,  he   said: 

"  Caine,  how  long  have  we  been  friends !  " 

I  replied :  "  Between  three  and  four  years." 

"And  how  long  did  we  correspond!" 

"  Three  years,  nearly." 

"  What  numbers  of  my  letters  you  must  pos- 
sess! They  may  perhaps  even  yet  be  useful 
to  you;  otherwise  our  friendship  may  prove  to 
have  been  more  burden  than  service." 

Only  that  I  knew  how  unselfish  had  been  the 
imj3ulse  which  prompted  the  last  remark,  I 
might  perhaps  from  that  moment  have  re- 
garded the  iDublication  of  Eossetti's  letters  to 
me  as  a  sort  of  trust.  Some  extracts  I  did 
indeed  give  from  them  in  the  earlier  book  al- 
ready referred  to,  and  even  now  I  content  my- 
self with  indicating  the  drift  of  those  long  con- 
versations by  post  which  were  the  consequence 
of  the  two  hundred  miles  which  divided  me 
from  my  friend. 

If,  as  I  have  not  hesitated  to  show  in  an 
earlier  chapter,  Rossetti  gave  me  on  occasion 

134 


I   BECOME   ROSSETTI'S   HOUSEMATE 

the  encouragement  of  his  warmest  praise,  he 
did  not  shrink  from  playing  the  part  of  Mentor 
also,  censuring  particularly  a  tendency  to  ob- 
scurity and  involution  in  style,  the  abnormal 
search  after  "  phrase "  and  the  "  outstanding 
word,"  which,  strange  as  I  find  it  to  remember, 
was  at  that  time  a  disfiguring  characteristic  of 
my  mind.  Prose  might  be  fervid  and  vivid,  but 
it  ought  to  be  simple  and  direct,  rarely  calling 
attention  to  itself,  never  breaking  the  rhythmic 
flow  by  forced  or  foreign  expression  or  yet  car- 
rying it  on  for  the  mere  sake  of  eifect. 

"  Surely,"  he  said,  "  you  are  strong  enough 
to  be  English  pure  and  simple.  I  am  sure  I 
could  write  a  hundred  essays  on  all  possible 
subjects  (I  once  did  project  a  series  under  the 
title  '  Essays  written  in  the  intervals  of  Ele- 
phantiasis, Hydrophobia,  and  Penal  Servi- 
tude'), without  once  experiencing  the  'aching 
void,'  which  is  filled  by  such  words  as  'myth- 
opoeic  '  and  '  anthropomorphism.'  I  do  not  find 
life  long  enough  to  know  in  the  least  what  they 
mean.  They  are  both  very  long  and  very  ugly, 
indeed — the  latter  only  suggesting  to  me  a 
vampire  or  a  somnambulant  cannibal." 

He  was  equally  severe  on  my  tendency  to 
quote  the  opinions  of  certain  journals  that  had 
spoken  well  of  me.    The  criticism  of  good  crit- 

135 


MY    STORY 

ics  might  be  good,  and  therefore  good  to  quote, 
but  much  criticism  was  bad,  and  therefore  it 
was  bad  to  mention  it. 

"  Really,  I  cannot  but  say,"  he  said,  "  that  the 
last  page  of  your  new  pamphlet  is  sadly  dis- 
figured by  the  names  of  London  prints  which 
are  conducted  by  the  lowest  gangs — at  least  I 
will  answer  for  one  being  so.  You  have  begun, 
as  you  tell  me,  and  as  I  somewhat  divine,  in 
a  scrambling  literary  way,  and  the  sooner  you 
shake  all  such  connections  off  the  nearer  you 
will  be  to  your  goal.  No  need  to  take  any 
notice  of  this  in  any  way.  It  is  a  finger-post, 
which  only  asks  to  be  followed  in  silence.  In- 
deed, I  will  ask  you  not  to  answer." 

Having  to  some  extent  cast  in  his  lot  with 
me,  he  was  irritated  by  any  loss  of  what  he 
thought  becoming  dignity  on  my  part,  and  not 
only  remonstrated  against  my  publishing  arti- 
cles in  magazines  which  he  called  "  farragoes 
of  absolute  garbage,"  but  was  even  reluctant 
to  allow  me,  when  I  was  about  to  edit  an  anthol- 
ogy of  sonnets,  to  write  to  the  poets  who  were 
to  be  asked  to  contribute. 

"  I  must  say  I  rather  doubt  the  wisdom  of 
writing  without  introduction  to  such  men  as 
you  mention.  A  superior  man  runs  the  risk, 
by  doing  so,  of  being  confounded  with  those 

136 


I  BECOME   ROSSETTI'S   HOUSEMATE 

who  are  perpetually  directing  correspondence 
to  any  one  whose  name  they  have  heard — and 
the  bibliographic  and  autograph-hunting  tribe 
whose  name  is  legion.  I  do  not  mean  that  such 
an  application  as  yours  could  rightly  be  classed 
with  these,  but  I  know  the  sort  of  exclamation 
that  rises  to  the  lips  of  a  man  as  much  beset 
by  strangers  as  (say)  Swinburne,  when  he 
opens  a  letter  and  sees  a  new  name  at  the  end 
of  it." 

He  was  hardly  less  irritated  by  a  tendency 
of  mine  to  set  the  manner  of  a  work  higher 
than  its  substance,  to  glorify  style  as  if  it  were 
a  thing  apart  from  su))ject. 

"  You  have  too  great  a  habit  of  speaking  of 
a  special  octave,  sestette,  or  line.  Conception, 
my  boy.  Fundamental  Brainwoek,  that  is  what 
makes  the  difference  in  all  art.  Work  your 
metal  as  much  as  vou  like,  but  first  take  care 
that  it  is  gold  and  worth  working.  A  Shake- 
spearian sonnet  is  better  than  the  most  perfect 
in  form  because  Shakespeare  wrote  it." 

But  "  I  hope  you  won't  think  that  I  am  ever- 
lastingly playing  Mentor,"  he  said,  and  to  lift 
up  my  heart  after  so  many  packs  of  the  wet 
blanket,  he  wrote,  about  a  new  lecture  on  the 
scarcely  confluent  elements  of  "  Politics  and 
Art  " :  "  It  is  abundantly  rich  in  spirit  and  ani- 

137 


MY    STORY 

mated  truth,  and  in  powerful  language,  too, 
when  required.  It  must  do  you  high  credit 
wherever  seen,  and  when  you  are  able  to  en- 
large your  sphere,  I  look  to  you  as  destined  to 
rank  among  the  coming  teachers  of  men." 

All  the  same  he  was  too  discreet  to  accept 
the  dedication  of  this  same  lecture,  when  I 
came  to  print  it,  though  the  letter  in  which 
he  declined  was  touching,  and  I  think  sin- 
cere: 

"  I  must  admit  at  all  hazards  that  my  friends 
consider  me  excej^tionally  averse  to  politics; 
and  I  suppose  I  must  be,  for  I  have  never  read 
a  Parliamentary  debate  in  my  life!  At  the 
same  time  I  must  add,  that,  among  those  whose 
opinions  I  most  value,  some  think  me  not  alto- 
gether wrong  when  I  venture  to  speak  of  the 
momentary  momentousness  and  eternal  futil- 
ity of  many  noisiest  questions.  However,  you 
must  simply  view  me  as  a  nonentity  in  any 
practical  relation  to  such  matters.  You  have 
spoken  1)ut  too  generously  of  a  sonnet  of  mine 
in  the  lecture  just  received.  I  have  written  a 
few  others  of  the  sort  (which,  by-the-bye, 
would  not  prove  me  a  Tory),  but  felt  no  voca- 
tion— i)erhaps  no  right — to  print  them.  I  have 
always  reproached  myself  as  sorely  amenable 
to  the  condemnation  of  a  very  fine  poem  by 

138 


I   BECOME   ROSSETTi'S   HOUSEMATE 

Barberino  on  '  Sloth  against  Sin,'  which  I 
translated  in  the  Dante  volume.  Sloth,  alas! 
has  too  much  to  answer  for  with  me ;  and  is  one 
of  the  reasons  (though  I  will  not  say  the  only 
one)  why  I  have  always  fallen  back  on  quality 
instead  of  quantity  in  the  little  I  have  ever 
done.    I  think  often  with  Coleridge : 

*  Sloth  jaundiced  all :  and  from  my  graspless  hand 
Drop  friendship's  precious  pearls  like  hour-glass  sand. 
I  weep,  yet  stoop  not:  the  faint  anguish  flows, 
A  dreamy  pang  in  morning's  feverish  doze.'  " 

Though  my  beginnings  had  been  scrambling 
ones,  it  was  my  own  fault  now  if  my  literary 
education  was  not  more  thorough,  and  even 
more  systematic,  than  any  school  or  university 
could  have  given  me.  Notwithstanding  the  calls 
of  my  ordinary  occupation,  I  was  reading  as 
much  as  six,  eight,  and  even  ten  hours  a  day, 
and  corresponding  constantly  on  the  subject  of 
my  reading  with  a  man  of  genius  whose  knowl- 
edge of  literature  was  very  wide  and  whose 
instinct  for  excellence  very  sure.  Our  studies 
were,  of  course,  mainly  English,  but  I  think 
they  covered  the  whole  range  of  what  was 
best — from  Shakespeare  and  even  less-known 
Elizabethan  poets,  through  Steele,  Savage, 
Goldsmith,    Johnson,    Cowper,    Fielding,    and 

139 


MY   STORY 

Eicliardson  to  the  writers  of  the  "  Lake," 
"  Cockney,"  and  "  Satanic "  schools,  coming 
down  to  our  own  day  with  Tennyson  and 
Browning,  and  covering  some  of  the  forgot- 
ten geniuses  of  yesterday,  such  as  Smart  and 
Wells. 

Eossetti's  letters,  which  are  equal  in  quantity 
to  the  contents  of  a  large  volume,  are  studded 
with  names  familiar  and  unfamiliar,  which  show 
how  vigorously  throughout  the  years  in  which 
he  had  been  occupied  chiefly  with  painting  he 
must  have  burrowed  in  the  by-paths  as  well  as 
laboured  in  the  highways  of  literature;  and 
when  I  remember  the  disadvantages  of  my  own 
beginning,  I  must  not  forget  that  for  two  and  a 
half  years  I  had  the  daily  coaching  of  Eossetti's 
forty  years  of  reading  and  the  constant  guid- 
ance of  his  fine  selective  instinct.  That  of  itself 
ought  to  have  been  a  literary  education  of  the 
highest  kind,  though  it  was  not  then  that  I  so 
regarded  it,  nor  do  I  suppose  for  a  moment  that 
Rossetti  himself  looked  at  it  in  such  a  light.  I 
see,  with  some  amusement,  that  in  the  course 
of  our  correspondence  I  sometimes  withstood 
his  judgments,  and  occasionally  remonstrated 
against  his  "  prejudices." 

Thus  I  protested  that  he  was  radically  unjust 
to  Wordsworth,  whom  he  had  not  the  patience 

140 


I   BECOME   KOSSETTI'S   HOUSEMATE 

to  read  except  in  fugitive  passages  taken  at 
random,  and  lie  answered: 

"  I  grudge  Wordsworth  every  vote  lie  gets. 
.  .  .  No  one  regards  the  great  Ode  with  more 
special  and  unique  homage  than  I  do,  as  a  thing 
absolutely  alone  of  its  kind  among  all  greatest 
things.  I  cannot  say  that  anything  else  of  his 
with  which  I  have  ever  been  familiar  (and  I 
suffer  from  long  disuse  of  all  familiarity  with 
him)  seems  to  me  all  on  a  level  with  this." 

We  were  on  common  ground,  however,  in  the 
worship  of  Coleridge.  "  The  three  greatest 
English  imaginations,"  he  said,  "  are  Shake- 
speare, Coleridge,  and  Shelley,"  and  he  was 
never  tired  of  extolling  the  beauties  of  "  Chris- 
tabel." 

"  Of  course,  the  first  part  is  so  immeasur- 
ably beyond  the  second,  that  one  feels  Charles 
Lamb's  view  was  right,  and  the  poem  should 
have  been  abandoned  at  that  point.  The  pas- 
sage on  Sundered  Friendship  is  one  of  the 
masterpieces  of  the  language,  but  no  doubt 
was  written  quite  separately  and  then  fitted 
into  '  Christabel ' — the  two  lines  about  '  Roland 
and  Sir  Leoline '  are  simply  an  intrusion  and 
an  outrage." 

Another  of  Rossetti's  references  to  "  Chris- 
tabel "  is  interesting  for  the  peep  it  affords 

141 


MY    STORY 

into  the  home  of  his  boyhood,  where  English 
books,  it  seems,  were  few. 

"  There  are,  I  believe,  many  continuations  of 
'  Christabel.'  Tupper  did  one !  I  myself  saw 
a  continuation  in  childhood,  long  before  I  saw 
the  original,  and  was  all  agog  to  see  it  for 
years.  Our  household  was  all  Italian,  not  Eng- 
lish environment,  however,  and  it  was  only 
when  I  went  to  school  later  that  I  began  to 
ransack  book-stalls." 

With  sufficient  audacitv,  I  came  into  collision 
with  Rossetti  again  over  Chatterton,  whom  I 
was  not  at  first  prepared  to  regard  with  spe- 
cial reverence,  apart  from  the  fact  that,  against 
tremendous  odds  and  at  seventeen  years  of 
age,  he  had  written  anything  that  deserved  to 
be  remembered  at  all;  but  nothing  would  suf- 
fice for  Rossetti  but  that  I  should  go  down  on 
my  knees  and  worship  the  author  of  the  Afri- 
can Eclogues. 

"  I  assure  you,"  he  said,  "  Chatterton  was  as 
great  as  any  English  jDoet  whatever,  and  might 
absolutely,  had  he  lived,  have  proved  the  only 
man  in  England's  theatre  of  imagination  who 
could  have  bandied  parts  with  Shakespeare." 

At  my  insinuation  that  perhaps  part  of  one's 
interest  in  Chatterton  had  its  origin  in  the  fact 
that  he  was  a  })it  of  a  ])lackguard,  and  not  so 

U'2 


I   BECOME   ROSSETTI'S   HOUSEMATE 

much  in  admiration  of  his  poems  as  in  sur- 
prise that  a  boy  of  sixteen  should  have  written 
them,  Rossetti,  as  was  most  natural,  fired  up 
warmly : 

"  I  must  protest  finally  that  the  man  who 
says  that  cannot  know  what  criticism  means. 
Chatterton  was  an  absolute  and  untarnished 
hero.  .  .  .  Surely  a  boy  up  to  eighteen  may  be 
pardoned  for  exercising  his  faculty  if  he  hap- 
pens to  be  one  among  millions  who  can  use 
grown  men  as  his  toys.  Certainly  that  most 
vigorous  passage  commencing — 

'  Interest,  thou  universal  God  of  men/ 

reads  startlingly,  and  comes  in  a  questionable 
shape,  AVhat  is  the  answer  to  its  enigmatical 
aspect?  AMiy,  that  he  meant  it,  and  that  all 
would  mean  it  at  his  age,  who  had  his  power, 
his  daring,  and  his  hunger." 

I  was  on  safer  ground  with  Rossetti  when 
we  began  to  write  about  Keats,  "  the  lovely 
and  beloved  Keats." 

"  You  say  an  excellent  thing,''  he  said,  "  when 
you  ask,  '  Where  can  we  look  for  more  poetry 
per  page  than  Keats  gives  us?'  I  shall  look 
forward  with  very  great  interest  to  your  essay 
on  Keats." 

And  when  the  Keats  paper  was  sent  to  him, 

143 


MY    STORY 

he  made  up  many  critical  denunciations  by  the 
warmest  sympathy. 

"  I  have  this  minute  at  last  read  the  Keats 
paper,  and  return  it.  It  is  excellent  through- 
out, and  the  closing  passage  is  very  finely 
worded.  .  .  .  You  quote  some  of  Keats's  say- 
ings. One  of  the  most  characteristic,  I  think, 
is  in  a  letter  to  Haydon :  '  I  value  more  the 
privilege  of  seeing  great  things  in  loneliness 
than  the  fame  of  a  prophet.'  .  .  .  Keats  wrote 
to  Shelley :  '  You,  I  am  sure,  will  forgive  me 
for  sincerely  remarking  that  you  might  curb 
your  magnanimity,  and  be  more  of  an  artist, 
and  load  every  rift  of  your  subject  with  ore.' 
Cheeky!  but  not  so  much  amiss.  Poetry  and 
not  prophecy,  however,  must  have  come  of  that 
mood;  and  no  pulpit  would  have  held  Keats's 
wings." 

The  Rossetti  correspondence  had,  with  great 
profit  to  me,  been  going  on  for  a  considerable 
time  when  my  personal  affairs  reached  an  acute 
but  not  altogether  unexpected  crisis.  My  long- 
standing grievance  against  my  everyday  occu- 
pation as  a  builder's  draughtsman  was,  in  spite 
of  the  never-failing  indulgence  of  my  employer, 
brought  to  a  head  by  another  attack  of  illness. 
The  symptoms  were  sufficiently  alarming  this 
time,  but,  although  satisfied  that  I  had  received 

144 


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I  BECOME   ROSSETTI'S   HOUSEMATE 

my  death  warrant,  I  said  nothing  to  anybody 
except  the  doctor  and  Rossetti,  to  whom,  ])y 
this  time,  I  was  in  the  habit  of  telling  every- 
thing. Rossetti  replied  with  his  usual  solici- 
tude, coupled  with  his  customary  remonstrance. 

Grave  as  the  issue  certainly  was,  it  is  almost 
amusing  to  me  to  remember  that,  being  con- 
vinced that  my  failure  of  health  was  mainly 
due  to  the  zeal  with  which  for  several  years  I 
had  been  burning  the  candle  at  both  ends,  it 
did  not  occur  to  me  for  a  moment  to  put  it  out 
at  the  end  that  was  apparently  least  necessary 
to  my  material  welfare.  My  easy  work  in  the 
building  yard  made  me  my  living,  while  my 
hard  work  with  my  books  made  me  nothing  at 
all;  but  I  take  it  to  be  an  evidence  of  how  the 
itch  for  writing  will  conquer  all  practical  con- 
siderations, and  perhaps  evidence  also  of  a  cer- 
tain natural  vocation,  that  when  I  came  to 
choose  between  those  two  it  was  the  living  that 
had  to  go. 

It  is  also  amusing  to  me  to  remember  that 
when  I  announced  to  Rossetti  that  the  time  had 
come  for  me  to  cut  away  from  business,  and 
to  sink  or  swim  in  an  effort  to  live  by  my  pen, 
having  no  literary  connections  at  that  time  that 
were  safe  for  sixpence,  it  was  he — he  who  had 
predicted  such  certain  success  for  me — that  was 

145 


MY    STORY 

thrown  into  a  state  of  the  greatest  alarm.  But 
even  Rossetti's  alarm  did  not  alarm  me;  and, 
spurred,  perhaps,  by  secret  and  increasing  fear 
of  a  disease  from  which  more  than  one  member 
of  my  family  had  died,  I  left  my  architectural 
employment  rather  abruptly,  as  I  now  see, 
notwithstanding  various  kind  overtures  from 
James  Bromley,  my  employer  and  my  friend. 

On  seeing  that  I  was  fully  resolved  to  burn 
my  boats,  Rossetti  proposed  that  I  should  pitch 
my  tent  with  him  in  London. 

"  I  feel  greatly  interested,"  he  said,  "  in  your 
prosiDects  and  intentions,  and  at  this  writing  I 
can  see  no  likelihood  of  my  not  remaining  in 
the  mind  that,  in  case  of  your  coming  to  Lon- 
don, your  quarters  should  be  taken  up  here. 
The  house  is  big  enough  for  two,  even  if  they 
meant  to  be  strangers  to  each  other.  You 
would  have  your  own  rooms,  and  we  should 
meet  just  when  we  pleased.  You  have  got  a 
sufficient  inkling  of  my  exceptional  habits  not 
to  be  scared  by  them.  It  is  true,  at  times  my 
health  and  sj^irits  are  variable,  but  I  am  sure 
we  should  not  l)e  squabbling." 

I  hesitated  to  take  advantage  of  such  a  one- 
sided arrangement  as  Rossetti  jiroposed,  and 
in  order  to  overcome  my  reluctance  he  began 
to  protest  that  he,  too,  was  far  from  well,  and 

146 


I  BECOME   ROSSETTPS   HOUSEMATE 

that  my  presence  in  his  house  might  be  helpful 
in  various  ways. 

"  You  must  not  be  anxious  on  my  account," 
he  said.  "  But  any  cause  whatever  which 
should  bring  you  (but  not  to  your  own  injury) 
to  my  door  would  l)e  welcome  in  result," 

The  truth  was,  however,  though  I  little 
thought  it,  that  while  my  illness  was  slight 
and  merely  temporary,  with  youth  to  banish 
it,  RossettiVs  was  serious  and  fated  to  follow 
him  to  the  end.  During  the  first  half  of  1881 
he  had  been  collecting,  revising,  and  finally 
printing  and  correcting  the  proofs  of  his  sec- 
ond volume  of  poems;  carrying  on  (through 
me)  a  rather  difficult  correspondence  relating 
to  the  sale  of  his  picture,  "  Dante's  Dream," 
to  the  Corporation  of  Liverpool;  and  (through 
Watts-Dunton)  another  vexatious  correspond- 
ence about  the  renewal  of  the  lease  of  his  house 
in  Chelsea  and  the  loss  of  the  large  garden  at 
the  back  which  had  for  years  been  his  sole 
ground  for  fresh  air  and  exercise.  Besides 
these  causes  of  worry  there  had  been  another 
and  yet  more  insidious  enemy  at  work  in  un- 
dermining Rossetti's  health — the  drug  in  which, 
partly  as  the  consequence  of  increasing  anxi- 
eties, he  was  now,  unknown  to  his  friends,  ex- 
ceeding terribly. 

147 


MY    STORY 

So  it  came  about  that,  when  I  had  left  Liver- 
pool and  gone  up  to  Cumberland,  resolved,  if 
I  shook  off  my  trouble,  to  toil  early  hours  and 
late  and  live  in  a  cottage  on  oatmeal  porridge 
and  barley  bread  rather  than  give  up  my  inten- 
tion of  becoming  a  man  of  letters,  Rossetti,  also 
influenced  by  considerations  of  health,  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  if  I  would  not  come  to  him 
he  must  go  to  me.  Scarcely  had  I  settled  in 
my  remote  quarters  when  he  wrote  that  he  must 
soon  leave  London;  that  he  was  wearied  out 
and  unable  to  sleep ;  that  if  he  could  only  reach 
my  secluded  vale  he  would  breathe  a  purer  air, 
mentally  as  well  as  physically. 

"  They  are  now  really  setting  about  the 
building  at  the  back  here.  I  do  not  know  what 
my  plans  may  be.  Suppose  I  were  to  ask  you 
to  come  to  town  in  a  fortnight  from  now,  and 
perhaps  I  returning  with  you  for  a  while  into 
the  country — would  that  be  feasible  to  you? " 

The  idea  of  my  going  up  to  London  and 
bringing  Rossetti  back  with  me  to  Cumberland 
became  a  settled  scheme,  and  toward  the  be- 
ginning of  August  he  wrote: 

"  I  will  hope  to  see  you  in  town  on  Saturday 
next,  unless  an  earlier  day  suits  decidedly  bet- 
ter. We  will  then  set  sail  in  one  boat.  I  am 
rather  anxious  as  to  having  become  perfectly 

148 


I   BECOME   EOSSETTPS   HOUSEMATE 

deaf  on  the  rii»ht  side  of  my  head.  Partial 
api:)roaches  to  this  have  sometimes  occurred  to 
me  and  passed  away,  so  I  will  not  be  too  much 
troubled.  ...  I  am  getting  cleared  out  the 
rooms  for  your  reception." 

In  due  course  I  arrived  in  London,  and  was 
received  with  the  utmost  warmth.  The  cheery 
"  Hulloa  "  greeted  me  again  as  I  entered  the 
studio,  and  then  Rossetti,  feebler  of  step,  I 
thought,  than  before,  led  the  way  to  the  apart- 
ments he  had  prepared  for  me. 

My  sitting-room  was  the  room  to  the  left  of 
the  hall  facing  the  green  dining-room,  with  a 
huge  sofa  and  two  huge  chairs  in  an  apple- 
blossom  chintz,  a  table,  a  black  oak  cabinet,  and 
a  number  of  small  photographs  of  Rossetti's 
pictures  in  plain  oak  frames.  It  had  been  oc- 
cupied in  turn  by  Mr.  Meredith  and  by  Mr. 
Swinburne  in  the  days  when  they  had  lived 
under  the  same  roof  with  Rossetti,  and  now 
it  was  to  be  mine  for  my  permanent  home  in 
London.  In  this  way  I  drifted  into  my  place 
as  Rossetti's  housemate,  and  very  soon  I  real- 
ised what  the  position  involved. 


11 


CHAPTER   V 

KOSSETTI   AND    HIS    FRIENDS 

ROSSETTI  was  now  a  changed  man.  He 
,  was  distinctly  less  inclined  to  corpu- 
lence, liis  eyes  were  less  bright,  and 
when  he  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  studio,  as 
it  was  his  habit  to  do  at  intervals  of  about 
an  hour,  it  was  with  a  laboured  side-long  mo- 
tion that  I  had  not  previously  observed.  Half 
sensible  of  an  anxiety  which  I  found  it  difficult 
to  conceal,  he  paused  for  an  instant  in  the 
midst  of  these  melancholy  perambulations  and 
asked  how  he  struck  me  as  to  health.  More 
frankly  than  wisely,  I  answered,  "  Less  well 
than  formerly."  It  was  an  unlucky  remark,  for 
Rossetti's  secret  desire  at  that  moment  was  to 
conceal  his  lowering  state  even  from  himself. 

He  had  written  his  "  King's  Tragedy  "  since 
I  had  stayed  with  him  before,  and  I  think  he 
wished  me  to  believe  that  the  emotional  strain 
involved  in  the  production  of  the  poem  had 
been  cliiefly  to  blame  for  his  reduced  condition. 

150 


ROSSETTI    AND    HIS    FRIENDS 

Casting  himself  on  the  couch  with  a  look  of 
exhaustion,  he  told  me  that  the  ballad  had  taken 
a  great  deal  out  of  him.  "  It  was  as  though 
my  life  ebbed  out  with  it,"  he  said.  Undoubt- 
edly the  weight  of  his  work  was  still  upon  him. 
Even  his  voice  seemed  to  have  lost  something 
in  quality,  and  to  have  diminished  in  comjDass 
also,  for  when  he  spoke  he  conveyed  the  idea 
of  speaking  as  much  to  himself  as  to  me. 

In  actual  fact,  however,  making  allowances 
for  the  strain  of  work  as  well  as  the  worry  of 
domestic  disturbances,  his  physical  retrogres- 
sion was  undoubtedly  due  in  great  part  to  re- 
cent excess  in  the  use  of  the  pernicious  drug. 
"With  that  excess  had  come  a  certain  moral  as 
well  as  bodily  decline.  I  thought  I  perceived 
that  he  was  more  than  ever  enslaved  by  the 
painful  delusions  I  have  spoken  of,  more  than 
ever  under  the  influence  of  intermittent  waves 
of  morbid  suspicion  of  nearly  everybody  with 
whom  he  came  in  contact. 

Right  or  wrong,  this  diagnosis  of  Rossetti's 
case  was  perhaps  the  one  thing  that  enabled 
me,  as  a  young  fellow  out  of  the  fresh  air  of 
the  commonplace  world,  to  do  the  poet  some 
good,  to  cheer  and  strengthen  him,  and  to  bring 
for  a  time  a  little  happiness  into  his  life.  Down 
to  the  moment  of  my  coming  he  had  for  years 

151 


MY    STORY 

rarely  been  outside  the  doors  of  his  great, 
gloomy  house,  certainly  never  afoot,  and  only 
in  closed  carriages  with  his  friends;  but  on  the 
second  night  of  my  stay  I  marched  boldly  into 
the  studio,  hat  in  hand,  announced  my  intention 
of  taking  a  walk  on  the  Chelsea  Embankment, 
and,  without  a  qualm,  asked  Rossetti  to  accom- 
pany me.  To  my  amazement,  he  consented, 
saying : 

"  Well — upon  my  word — really  I  think  I 
will,"  and  every  night  for  a  week  afterward 
I  induced  him  to  repeat  the  unfamiliar  experi- 
ment. 

But  now  I  recall  with  emotion  and  some  re- 
morse the  scene  and  circumstance  of  those 
nightly  walks :  the  Embankment,  almost  dark 
with  its  gas  lamps  far  apart,  and  generally 
silent  at  our  late  hour  except  for  an  occasional 
footfall  on  the  pavement  under  the  tall  houses 
opposite;  the  black  river  flowing  noiselessly 
behind  the  low  wall  and  gurgling  under  the 
bridge;  and  then  Rossetti,  in  his  slouch  hat 
with  its  broad  brim  pulled  down  low  on  his  fore- 
head, as  if  to  conceal  his  face,  lurching  along 
with  a  heavy,  uncertain  step,  breathing  audibly, 
looking  at  nothing  and  hardly  speaking  at  all. 
From  these  nightly  perambulations  he  would 
return  home  utterly  exhausted,  and,  throwing 

152 


EOSSETTI   AND   HIS    FRIENDS 

himself  on  the  couch,  remain  prostrate  for 
nearly  an  hour. 

I  seem  to  rememher  that  on  one  of  our  walks 
along  the  Emhankment  late  at  night  we  passed 
in  the  half-darkness  two  figures  which  bore  a 
certain  resemblance  to  our  own — an  old  man 
in  a  Scotch  plaid,  accompanied  by  a  slight 
young  woman  in  a  sort  of  dolman.  The  old 
man  was  forging  along  sturdily  with  the  help 
of  a  stick,  and  the  young  woman  appeared  to 
be  making  some  effort  to  keep  pace  with  him. 
It  was  Carlyle  with  his  niece,  and  I  caught  but 
one  glimpse  of  them  as,  out  on  the  same  errand 
as  ourselves,  they  went  off  in  the  other  di- 
rection. 

Although  it  was  understood  between  us  that 
I  had  come  up  to  London  with  the  express  pur- 
pose of  taking  Rossetti  back  with  me  to  Cum- 
berland, he  seemed  to  be  in  no  hurry  for  our 
departure.  Day  by  day  and  week  by  week,  with 
all  the  ingenuity  of  his  native  irresolution,  he 
devised  reasons  for  delay,  and  thus  a  month 
passed  before  we  began  to  make  a  move.  Mean- 
time we  commenced  our  career  together  under 
the  same  roof,  and  to  me  it  was  both  interest- 
ing and  helpful.  Rossetti's  habits  of  life  were, 
indeed,  as  he  said,  exceptional,  and  in  some 
respects  they  seemed  to  turn  the  world  topsy- 

153 


MY    STOEY 

turvy.  I  am  convinced  that  at  this  time  only 
the  necessity  of  securing  a  certain  short  inter- 
val of  daylight  hj  which  it  was  possible  to  paint 
l^revailed  with  him  to  get  up  before  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon,  Eising  about  noon  and  break- 
fasting in  his  little  ante-room  (an  enormous 
breakfast  of  six  eggs  and  half  a  dozen  kidneys), 
he  would  come  down  to  the  studio  and  sit  stead- 
ily at  his  easel  for  three  or  four  hours,  with 
two  or  three  intervals  of  perhaps  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  each  for  walking  to  and  fro. 

"  I  believe  in  doing  a  little  work  every  daj', 
and  doing  it  as  well  as  I  can,"  he  would  say. 

When  the  light  began  to  fail  he  would  come 
to  my  sitting-room  to  see  how  I  was  "  getting 
along,"  an  errand  which  invariably  resulted  in 
our  going  back  together  to  the  studio  and  talk- 
ing until  dinner-time. 

His  talk  at  this  period  was  hardly  ever  per- 
sonal. I  was  now  (by  the  invitation  of  Alder- 
man Samuel  son)  preparing  a  course  of  lectures 
to  be  delivered  in  Liverpool  during  the  winter, 
and  our  conversation  was  nearly  always  on  the 
subject  of  my  studies.  This  was  the  prose  lit- 
erature of  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury in  England  (chiefly  Fielding,  Richardson, 
Smollett,  and  De  Foe),  and  Rossetti  threw  him- 
self into  my  work  with  as  much  ardour  as  if  it 

154 


ROSSETTI    AND    HIS    FRIENDS 

had  been  his  own.  I  remember  that  he  did  not 
strike  me  as  particularly  well  read  in  fiction, 
but  he  had  a  faculty  I  had  never  seen  in  any- 
body else — the  faculty  of  knowing  things  with- 
out taking  the  trouble  to  learn  them,  of  seeing 
things  without  looking  at  them,  of  understand- 
ing things  without  thinking  of  them — a  faculty 
beyond  and  apart  from  talent,  and  having  little 
or  nothing  to  do  with  industry.  Remembering 
the  bright  light  of  Rossetti's  intellect,  I  am  by 
no  means  sure  that  of  all  men  of  genius  I  have 
ever  known  he  did  not  stand  alone. 

We  dined  about  half-past  eight,  generally  in 
the  studio  and  often  without  company,  sat  up 
till  two  or  three,  and  then  went  to  bed  with 
volumes  of  "  Clarissa  "  or  "  Tom  Jones." 

Nights  of  such  loneliness  were  frequently 
broken,  however,  by  the  society  of  Rossetti's 
friends,  and  during  the  weeks  of  our  waiting 
I  came  to  know  one  by  one  the  few  men  and 
women  who  remained  of  the  poet's  intimate 
circle.  There  was  his  brother  William,  a  staid 
and  rather  silent  man,  at  that  time  in  the  civil 
service,  growing  elderly  and  apparently  encom- 
passed by  family  cares,  but  coming  to  Cheyne 
Walk  every  Monday  night  with  unfailing  regu- 
larity and  a  brotherly  loyalty  that  never  flagged. 
There  was  Theodore   Watts    (Watts-Dunton), 

155 


MY    STORY 

most  intimate  of  Rossetti's  friends,  a  short 
man,  then  in  the  prime  of  life,  with  a  great 
head  and  brilliant  eyes.  There  was  Frederic 
Shields,  the  painter,  on  the  sunny  side  of  mid- 
dle age,  enthusiastic,  spontaneous,  almost  spas- 
modic. There  was  William  Bell  Scott,  poet  and 
painter,  very  emotional,  very  sensitive,  a  little 
inclined  to  bitterness,  a  tall  old  man  who  had 
lost  his  hair  and  wore  a  wig  which  somewhat 
belied  his  face.  There  was  Ford  Madox  Brown, 
a  handsome,  elderly  man  with  a  long,  whiten- 
ing beard,  a  solid  figure,  with  a  firm  step,  a 
dignified  manner,  and  a  sententious  style  of 
speech.  Then  there  was  William  Sharp,  a 
young  fellow  in  his  early  twenties,  very  bright,  ** 
very  winsome,  very  lively,  very  lovable,  very 
Scotch,  always  telling  in  what  Rossetti  called 
"  the  unknown  tongue "  exaggerated  and  in- 
credible stories  which  made  him  laugh  uproari- 
ously, but  were  never  intended  to  be  believed. 
And  then  there  was  the  blind  poet,  Philip 
Bourke  Marston,  a  pathetic  figure,  slack  and 
untidy,  with  large  lips  and  pale  cheeks,  silent, 
gloomy,  and  perhaps  morbid. 

These  constituted  the  inner  circle  of  Rosset- 
ti's friends,  and  they  came  at  varying  inter- 
vals: AVatts  twice  or  thrice  a  week,  Shields 
more  rarely,   Brown  on   the  occasions  of  his 

156 


KOSSETTI    AND    HIS    FRIENDS 

holidays  in  London  from  his  work  on  the  fres- 
coes in  the  Town  Hall  at  Manchester,  Sharp 
and  Marston  now  and  then.  Besides  these, 
there  were  calls  from  a  few  of  the  buyers  of 
Eossetti's  pictures,  chief  among  them  being 
Frederick  Leyland,  a  remarkable  man,  tall  and 
stylish,  almost  sliow>%  very  clever  and  keen. 
And  once  or  twice  during  the  weeks  of  our 
waiting  there  were  visits  from  the  ladies  of 
Eossetti's  family:  his  mother,  a  gentle,  sweet- 
faced  old  lady  in  a  long  sealskin  coat  (the  treas- 
ured gift  of  the  poet),  and  his  sister  Christina, 
a  woman  in  middle  life  with  a  fine,  intellectual 
face,  noticeably  large  and  somewhat  protrusive 
eyes,  a  pleasant  smile  and  a  quiet  manner,  but 
a  power  of  clear-cut,  incisive  speech  which  gave 
an  astonishing  effect  of  mental  strength.  Final- 
ly, there  were  rare  and  valued  visits  from  Mrs. 
William  Morris,  the  subject  of  many  of  Eos- 
setti's pictures,  no  longer  young  but  still  won- 
drously  beautiful,  with  the  grand,  sad  face 
which  the  painter  has  made  immortal  in  those 
three-quarter-length  pictures  which  for  wealth 
of  sublime  and  mysterious  suggestion,  unaided 
by  dramatic  design,  are  probably,  as  Watts- 
Dunton  says,  "  unique  in  the  art  of  the  world." 
Naturally  it  could  not  be  altogether  a  deso- 
late  house   in   which    such   men    and    women 

157 


MY    STORY 

revolved  at  intervals  around  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  personalities  of  the  age,  and  not- 
withstanding the  gradual  lowering  of  Rossetti's 
health,  we  had  our  cheerful  hours  together  from 
time  to  time.  I  recall  the  dinners  in  the  studio, 
in  the  midst  of  the  easels,  the  game  of  "  Limer- 
icks "  sometimes  played  about  the  table,  every- 
body taking  his  turn  (the  unhappy  subject  be- 
ing usually  the  friend  who  had  not  turned  up), 
and  the  peals  of  laughter  that  rang  through  the 
room  as  Rossetti's  rhyme,  aflame  with  satire 
that  was  not  always  without  the  power  to 
scorch,  fell  on  us  like  a  thunderbolt.  I  recall, 
too,  the  quieter  evenings,  when  Rossetti  and 
Watts  together,  with  a  friendliness  I  can  never 
forget,  talked  for  long  hours  on  the  literary 
subjects  that  were  at  the  moment  most  inter- 
esting to  me. 

/'Not  many  echoes  of  the  outer  world  came  to 
us  in  that  closed  circle  of  Rossetti's  house,  for 
there  was  a  kind  of  silent  acquiescence  in  the 
idea  that  the  atfairs  of  everyday  life  were  pro- 
scribed. I  cannot  remember  that  we  talked 
politics  at  all,  or  that  a  daily  newspaper  ever 
entered  our  doors.  A  criminal  trial,  with  a 
mystery  attached  to  it,  would  awaken  Rossetti's 
keenest  interest,  and  set  his  amazing  powers  of 
deduction  to  work,  but  social  movements  had 

158 


EOSSETTI   AND    HIS    FRIENDS 


small  value  in  his  eyes,  and  even  religious  agi- 
tations rarely  moved  him.  I  remember  that  a 
little  of  my  native  Puritanism  took  me  one  Sun- 
day morning  to  hear  Spurgeon,  the  great  Noij- 
conformist  preacher,  at  the  moment  when  lie 
was  in  the  fires  of  what  was  called  his  "  dowji- 
grade  "  crusade,  but  I  tried  in  vain  to  interest 
Rossetti  in  the  burning  propaganda.  ^ 

Literary  doings,  however,  and  in  a  less  de- 
gree artistic  ones,  also,  commanded  Rossetti's 
attention  always,  for  his  house  was  a  hot-bed 
of  intellectual  activity,  and  I  recall  in  particu- 
lar his  anxiety  to  know  what  was  l>eing  pub- 
lished and  discussed.  A  young  poet,  who  was 
just  then  attracting  attention  by  certain  pecul- 
iarities of  personal  behaviour  and  a  series  of 
cartoons  in  which  he  was  caricatured  by  Du 
Maurier  in  Punch,  sent  Rossetti  his  first  book 
of  poems,  a  volume  bound  in  parchment  and 
inscribed,  I  think,  in  gold.  This  was  Oscar 
Wilde,  and  I  remember  Rossetti's  quick  recog-  | ,/ 
nition  of  the  gifts  that  underlay  a  good  deal 
of  amusing  affectation. 

The  air  was  at  that  time  full  of  stories  of 
"^^-Tiistler's  pecuniary  distresses,  and  I  remem- 
ber, too,  a  string  of  ridiculous  anecdotes  which 
Rossetti  used  to  tell  of  "  Jimmy's  "  eccentrici- 
ties.   Then  there  was  Swinburne,  a  figure  that 

159 


MY    STORY 

seemed  to  be  always  hovering  about  Rossetti's 
house  (though  during  my  time  his  body  was 
never  present  there),  so  constantly  was  he  dis- 
cussed either  bj'  Watts,  by  Rossetti,  or  by  my- 
self. But  of  other  and  still  more  intimate 
friends  of  earlier  life — Ruskin,  Morris,  Ilolman 
Hunt,  and  Burne-Jones — nothing  was  seen  and 
hardly  anything  was  said,  and  of  this  fact  I 
can  offer  no  explanation — none,  at  least,  except 
by  side-light  derived  from  Rossetti's  great  love 
and  frequent  repetition  of  Coleridge's  "  Work 
Without  Hope,"  with  its — 

Sloth  jaundiced  all,  and  from  my  graspless  hand 
Drop  friendship's  precious  pearls  like  hour-glass  sand. 

Two  events  of  much  importance  during  our 
month  in  London  might  have  been  expected  to 
awaken  Rossetti  to  the  keenest  interest  in  life. 
After  lengthy  negotiations,  measureless  corre- 
spondence, countless  interviews,  and  the  exer- 
cise of  some  tact  and  diplomacy  to  meet  and 
defeat  the  obstacles  which  Rossetti's  pride  or 
personal  antagonism  had  been  constantly  put- 
ting in  the  way,  I  succeeded  in  selling  the  great 
"  Dante's  Dream  "  to  Liverpool.  The  picture 
was  exhibited  immediately,  and  at  first  there 
was  a  certain  amount  of  criticism  in  the  local 
newspapers,  a  certain  carping  at  the  Corpora- 

160 


ROSSETTI    AND    HIS    FRIENDS 

tion  for  the  peculiarities  of  its  purchase,  but 
Rossetti  heard  nothing  of  that.  All  he  heard 
were  the  rapturous  i)raises  of  the  few  who 
subscribed  to  Noel  Paton's  opinion  that  his 
"  Dante  "  was  one  of  the  half  dozen  great  pic- 
tures of  the  world,  and  all  he  knew  besides  was 
that  one  morning  I  took  to  his  bedroom  a 
cheque  for  the  fifteen  hundred  guineas  that 
were  the  price  paid  by  Liverpool. 

His  second  volume  of  poems,  also,  "  Ballads 
and  Sonnets,"  was  published  during  our  weeks 
of  waiting,  and  if,  once  again,  there  was  at 
first  a  measure  of  adverse  criticism,  Rossetti, 
in  his  failing  health,  was  allowed  to  know  noth- 
ing about  that,  either.  All  he  saw  in  the  name 
of  criticism  was  a  noble  and  brilliant  apprecia- 
tion by  Watts-Dimton  (Athenceum),  which,  as 
I  remember,  brought  the  tears  to  his  eyes  when 
he  read  it ;  a  fine  analysis  by  Professor  Dowden 
(Academy),  and  an  article,  all  affection  and 
emotion,  by  myself.  Beyond  this,  and  the  gen- 
eral impression  we  all  conveyed  to  him  that  his 
book  was  having  a  magnificent  reception,  Ros- 
setti had  no  other  knowledge  of  the  fate  of 
his  new  book  than  came  to  him  in  the  substan- 
tial form  of  his  publishers'  cheques. 

Rossetti  might  have  been  expected  to  find  joy 
in  the  fact  that  in  one  month,  by  the  simultane- 

161 


MY    STORY 

ous  production  of  two  masterpieces,  he  had 
again  become  illustrious  in  two  arts,  but  it 
would  wrong  the  truth  to  say  that  he  gave  any 
particular  sign  of  satisfaction,  I  cannot  recall 
that  he  showed  a  real  interest  in  the  reception 
of  his  picture,  or  that  the  fate  of  his  new  book 
*  gave  him  a  moment's  apparent  uneasiness. 

If  I  had  not  heard  of  the  feverish  watchful- 
ness with  which  he  had  followed  the  fortunes 
of  his  earlier  volume,  I  should  have  concluded 
that  the  absence  of  anxiety  about  his  second 
book  was  due  to  a  calm  reliance  on  its  strength. 
But  the  intensity  of  Rossetti's  sensitiveness  to 
any  breath  of  criticism  was  as  great  as  ever, 
and  it  is  more  than  probable  that  the  same 
shrinking  from  public  observation  which  had 
made  him  a  hermit  made  him  shut  out  of  his 
consciousness  any  influence  that  might  possi- 
bly bring  him  pain. 

I  remember  that  one  morning,  not  long  after 
the  publication  of  the  book,  coming  unexpect- 
edly into  my  sitting-room  and  seeing  on  the 
table  a  copy  of  a  well-known  weekly  journal 
lying  open  at  a  page  in  which  some  purblind 
person,  reviewing  the  "  Ballads,"  began,  "  It  is 
difficult  to  determine  exactly  what  position  the 
author  of  these  poems  fills  in  the  category  of 
secondary  poets,"  Rossetti  fired  up  at  me  for 

162 


ROSSETTI   AND   HIS    FRIENDS 

"  shunting  his  enemies  into  his  house,"  and  then 
went  off  to  his  studio  in  a  towering  rage.  The 
unlucky  article  was  no  doubt  foolish  enough  as 
criticism  in  a  leading  place  of  a  book  which 
gave  proof  of  one  of  the  great  poets  of  the 
century,  but  I  thought  it  was  necessary  to  look 
elsewhere  than  to  the  natural  irritability  of  the 
poetic- nature  for  the  reason  of  Rossetti's  want 
of  manliness  in  meeting  with  one  more  evidence 
of  the  perpetual  jiresence  of  the  egregious  ass. 

Unfortunately,  it  was  not  necessary  to  look 
far.  Day  by  day,  or  night  by  night,  prompted 
perhaps  by  the  desire  to  suppress  the  nervous- 
ness created  by  his  domestic  worries,  the  sale 
of  his  pictures,  and  the  publication  of  his  book, 
Rossetti  was  giving  way  more  and  more  to  in- 
dulgence in  his  accursed  drug,  and  not  all  our 
efforts  to  keep  painful  facts  from  his  knowl- 
edge, nor  yet  our  innocent  scheming  to  fill  his 
gloomy  house  with  sunshine,  availed  to  bring 
any  real  happiness  into  his  life. 

I  remember  that  one  day  his  brother  Will- 
iam's wife  (a  daughter  of  Madox  Brown)  sent 
her  children  to  ChejTie  Walk  on  a  visit  to  their 
uncle,  thinking,  no  doubt,  to  brighten  him  up 
by  their  cheerful  presence;  but  beyond  a  mo- 
mentary welcome  from  the  poet  as  he  sat  in 
the  studio,  and  a  constrained  greeting  from  the 

163 


MY    STORY 

little  ones,  nothing  came  of  the  innocent  arti- 
fice, and  Rossetti  heard  no  more  of  them  than 
their  happy  laughter  as  they  romped  through 
the  rest  of  the  house. 

x\ugust  had  slid  into  September  while  we 
waited  in  London  without  obvious  purpose,  and 
it  was  now  plainly  apparent  to  all  Rossetti's 
friends  that  out  of  regard  both  to  the  condition 
of  his  health  and  the  time  of  the  year,  he  must 
go  back  to  Cumberland  with  me  immediately 
if  he  was  to  go  at  all.  Once  out  of  this  atmos- 
phere of  gloom,  of  anxiety,  and  of  irritation, 
we  thought  his  spirits  would  revive  and  his 
physical  weakness  disappear. 

Infinite  were  the  efforts  that  had  to  be  made, 
and  countless  the  precautions  that  had  to  be 
taken,  before  Rossetti  could  l)e  induced  to  set 
out;  but  at  length,  after  a  farewell  visit  to 
Torrington  Square,  to  say  good-bye  to  his 
mother  and  sister,  we  found  ourselves — we  two 
and  the  nurse — at  9  p.m.,  one  evening  in  Sep- 
tember, at  Euston  Station,  sitting  behind  the 
drawn  blinds  of  a  special  saloon  carriage  that 
was  labelled  for  Keswick,  and  packed  with  as 
many  baskets  and  bags,  as  many  books  and 
artist's  trappings,  as  would  have  lasted  for  an 
absence  of  a  year. 


CHAPTER   VI 

FIRST    WEEKS    IN    THE    VALE    OF    ST.    JOHN 

TO  paint  a  portrait  of  Rossetti  as  he 
was  when  I  lived  with  him  in  the  last 
year  of  his  life  is  to  present  a  very 
complex  personality,  having  many  conflicting 
impulses,  many  contradictory  manifestations; 
and  if,  by  any  revelation  of  truth,  I  can  ac- 
count for  the  want  of  harmony  in  the  poet's 
character,  and  in  the  impressions  it  made  upon 
observers,  I  shall  perhaps  do  something  to  re- 
cover the  real  Rossetti  from  the  misrepresenta- 
tions of  the  detractors  who  hated  him  and  of 
the  admirers  who  did  not  understand  him. 

I  have  not  concealed  my  conviction  that  the 
less  noble  side  of  Rossetti  came  of  prolonged] 
indulgence  in  a  pernicious  drug,  and  once  again 
I  cannot  omit  an  illustration  of  the  corrupting 
influence  of  his  unfortunate  habit.  Our  journey 
to  Cumberland  was  long  and  tiresome.  The 
man  who  could  not  sleep  in  a  muffled  bedroom 
fronting  an  open  garden  was  hardly  likely  to 
13  165 


MY    STOKY 

sleep  in  a  rumblins^  and  jolting  railway  train. 
But  toward  midnight  I  gave  Rossetti  his  usual 
dose  and  went  to  sleep. 

I  awoke  when  the  train  stopped  at  Penrith, 
and  the  dawn  was  breaking,  but  Eossetti  was 
still  lying  where  I  had  left  him.  Something 
suggested  that  I  should  look  in  my  handliag, 
and  to  my  distress  I  discovered  that  one  of  the 
two  bottles  of  chloral  had  gone. 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  we  reached  the  little 
wayside  station  (Threlkeld)  that  was  the  end 
of  our  journey,  and  there  we  got  into  a  car- 
riage which  was  to  drive  us  through  tho  Vale 
of  St.  John  to  the  Legberthwaite  end  of  it.  The 
morning  was  calm ;  the  mountains  looked  grand 
and  nol)le  with  the  mists  floating  over  their 
crowns;  nothing  could  be  heard  but  the  call 
of  awakening  cattle,  the  rumble  of  the  cata- 
racts that  were  far  away,  and  the  surge  of  the 
rivers  that  were  near.  Rossetti  was  all  but 
indifferent  to  our  surroundings,  or  displayed 
only  such  fitful  interest  in  them  as  must  have 
been  affected  out  of  kindly  desire  to  please  me. 
He  said  the  chloral  I  had  given  him  on  the 
journey  was  in  his  eyes,  so  that  he  could  not 
rightly  see,  and  as  soon  as  we  reached  the  house 
that  was  to  be  our  home,  he  declared  his  inten- 
tion of  going  to  bed, 

166 


FIRST  WEEKS  IN  VALE  OF  ST.  JOHN 

I  saw  him  to  his  room  and  then  left  him 
immediately,  perceiving  he  was  anxious  to 
dismiss  me;  but,  returning  a  moment  after- 
ward with  some  urgent  message,  I  opened  his 
door  without  knocking  and  came  suddenly 
upon  him  in  the  act  of  drinking  the  contents 
of  the  bottle  of  chloral  I  had  missed  from 
the  bag.  / 

It  would  be  impossible  for  me,  even  now  at 
this  distance  of  time,  to  convey  any  sense  of 
the  crushing  humiliation  of  this  incident,  of  the 
abject  degradation  whidi  the  habit  of  chloral 
had  brought  about  in  an  ingenuous,  frank,  and 
noble  nature.  It  was  not  then,  however,  that 
Rossetti  himself  had  any  consciousness  of  this. 
Indeed,  I  thought  there  was  even  something 
almost  cruel  in  the  laugh  with  which  he  received 
my  nervous  protest;  but  afterward,  when  the 
effects  of  the  drug  were  gone  and  he  realised 
the  pain  he  had  caused,  the  fear  he  had  cre- 
ated, the  hours  I  had  walked  on  tiptoe  in  the 
corridor  outside  his  door,  listening  for  the 
sound  of  his  breathing,  in  terror  lest  it  should 
stop,  the  true  man  showed  himself,  the  real 
Eossetti,  and  he  said  (as  he  did  again  and  again 
on  other  occasions) : 

"  I  wish  you  were  really  my  son,  for,  though 
I  should  have  no  right  to  treat  you  so,  I  should 

167 


MY    STORY 

at  least  have  some  reason  to  expect  your  for- 
giveness." 

Although  he  had  consumed  since  we  left  Lon- 
don a  quantity  of  chloral  that  would  have  been 
sufficient  to  destroy,  perhaps,  all  the  other 
members  of  our  little  household  put  together, 
Eossetti  awoke  fresh  and  in  good  spirits  toward 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  breakfasted  heart- 
ily, and  then  took  a  turn  about  the  house  which 
was  intended  to  be  our  home  for  at  least  a 
couple  of  months  to  come. 

It  was  a  modest  place  called  Fisher  Ghyll, 
having  a  guest  house  in  front  consisting  of 
three  sitting-rooms  and  as  many  bedrooms,  and 
a  group  of  farm  buildings  at  the  back.  Stand- 
ing in  what  may  be  called  the  estuary  of  the 
valley,  where  the  Vale  of  St.  John  empties  into 
the  dale  of  Thirlmere,  it  had  the  purple  heights 
of  Blencathra  to  the  north,  the  scraggy  rocks 
of  the  Dunmail  Raise  to  the  south,  the  Styx 
Pass  and  the  brant  sides  of  Helvellyn  beside  it, 
and  before  it  the  wooded  slopes  of  Golden 
Howe,  the  climbing  road  to  Keswick  and  the 
pathway  of  the  setting  sun.  Not  a  sound  about 
the  house  except  the  occasional  voice  of  a  child 
or  bark  of  a  dog,  the  plash  of  falling  water,  the 
bleating  of  sheep,  the  echo  of  the  axe  of  the 
woodman  who  was  thinning  the  neighbouring 

168 


FIRST  WEEKS  IN  VALE  OF  ST.  JOHN 

plantation,  and  the  hum  of  the  mail-coach  that 
passed  morning  and  evening  from  the  little 
market  town  five  miles  away. 

Rossetti  was  delighted.  Here,  at  least,  he 
might  bury  the  memory  of  a  hundred  "  bogies  " 
that  had  vexed  him;  here,  in  this  exhilarating 
air,  he  might  recover  the  health  he  had  lost  iu 
the  close  atmosphere  of  his  studio  in  London, 
and  here,  too,  amidst  the  vivid  scenery,  so  won- 
derfully awakening  to  the  imagination,  so  full 
of  poetic  appeal  and  ghostly  legend,  he  might 
turn  again  to  the  romantic  ballad  which  he  had 
expected  to  write  among  such  surroundings. 

Next  day  he  was  exceptionally  well,  and  as- 
toimded  me  by  the  proposal  that  we  should 
ascend  Golden  Howe  together — the  little  moun- 
tain of  perhaps  a  thousand  feet  that  stands  at 
the  head  of  Thirlmere.  With  never  a  hope  on 
my  part  of  reaching  the  top,  we  set  out  for  that 
purpose,  but  weak  as  he  had  been  a  few  days 
before,  Rossetti  actually  accomplished  the  task 
he  proposed  for  himself,  going  up  slowly,  little 
by  little,  through  the  ferns  and  the  fir-trees, 
with  their  rabbits  and  red-tailed  squirrels,  and 
then  sitting  for  a  long  hour  on  the  summit.  It 
was  a  marvellous  picture  that  lay  about  us,  with 
the  lake  below  and  the  undulating  mountain 
tops  above,  and  Rossetti  was  much  impressed. 

169 


MY    STORY 

"  I'm  not  one  of  those  who  care  about  scenery, 
l)ut  this  is  wonderful  and  the  colour  is  wonder- 
ful," he  said. 

His  spirits  were  high,  and  when  on  beginning 
our  descent  he  lost  his  footing  and  slithered 
some  distance  through  the  bracken  before  I 
could  stop  him,  he  only  laughed  and  said : 

"  Don't  be  afraid.  I  always  go  up  on  my 
feet,  and  come  down  on  a  broader  basis." 

He  painted  a  little  during  those  first  quiet 
days  in  Cumberland,  not  having  touched  a  brush 
for  some  time  before  we  left  London,  and  I 
found  it  a  pleasure  to  watch  a  picture  growing 
under  his  masterly  hand  from  the  first  warm 
ground  that  was  made  to  cover  the  canvas  be- 
fore his  subject  was  begun  to  the  last  indefina- 
ble change  in  one  of  his  idealised  women's  faces, 
cold  in  their  loveliness,  unsubstantial  in  their 
passion,  tainted  with  the  melancholy  that  clings 
to  the  purest  beauty.  Naturally  he  had  no 
models,  and  speaking  of  that  drawback,  he  said: 

"  It's  wonderful  what  a  bit  of  nature  will  do 
for  you  when  you  can  get  it  in  " ;  but  he  also 
said  something  about  style  Ijeing  injured  by  a 
slavish  submission  to  fact. 

I  remember  that  I  asked  him  what  was  the 
reason  he  had  never  painted  the  great  dramatic 
compositions  he  had  designed  in  earlier  years — 

170 


FIRST  WEEKS  IN  VALE  OF  ST.  JOHN 

the  "  Hamlet,"  the  "  Cassandra,"  and,  above  all, 
the  "  Mary  Magdalene  at  the  Door  of  Simon 
the  Pharisee  " — and  he  answered  with  a  laugh : 

"  Bread  and  butter,  my  l3oy — that  was  the 
reason.  I  had  to  paint  what  I  could  sell.  But 
I'll  tell  j^ou  something,"  he  added  quickly.  "  I 
like  best  to  paint  a  picture  that  shall  boil  the 
pot  and  yet  be  no  pot-boiler." 

The  days  were  already  short,  the  nights  were 
long.  Rossetti  could  not  read  with  ease  by 
lamplight  or  sleep  until  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning,  and  so  it  came  about  that  during  our 
first  cheerful  weeks  in  Cumberland  he  threw 
himself  with  great  ardour  into  my  own  occupa- 
tions. I  was  still  preparing  my  lectures  on 
prose  literature,  and  to  fortify  myself  for  my 
work  I  was  reading  the  masterpieces  over 
again.  Seeing  this,  Rossetti  suggested  that  I 
should  read  them  aloud,  and  I  did  so. 

Many  an  evening  we  passed  in  this  way.  It 
lives  in  my  memory  both  as  a  sweet  and  a  sad 
experience.  Behind  our  little  farm  house  was 
the  lowest  pool  of  a  ghyll,  and  the  roar  of  the 
falling  waters  could  be  heard  from  within.  On 
the  farther  side  of  the  vale  there  were  black 
crags  where  ravens  lived,  and  in  the  unseen 
bed  of  the  dale  between  lay  the  dark  waters 
of  Thirlmere.    The  surroundings  were  impres- 

171 


MY    STORY 

sive  enough  to  eye  and  ear  in  the  daylight,  but 
when  night  came,  and  the  himps  were  lit  and 
the  curtains  were  drawn,  and  darkness  covered 
everything  outside,  they  were  awesome  and 
grim. 

I  remember  those  evenings  with  gratitude 
and  some  pain.  The  little  oblong  sitting-room, 
the  dull  thud  of  the  waterfall  like  distant  thun- 
der overhead,  the  crackle  of  the  wood  fire,  my- 
self reading  aloud,  and  Rossetti,  in  his  long  sack 
coat,  his  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  upright  pock- 
ets, walking  with  his  heavy  and  uncertain  step 
to  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  laughing  sometimes  his 
big,  deep  laugh,  and  sometimes  sitting  down  to 
wipe  his  moist  spectacles  and  clear  his  dim 
eyes.  Not  rarely  the  dead  white  gleams  of  the 
early  dawn  before  the  coming  of  the  sun  met 
the  yellow  light  of  our  candles  as  we  passed 
on  the  staircase,  going  to  bed,  a  little  window 
that  looked  uj)  to  the  mountains,  and  over  them 
to  the  east. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  all  pleasure  even,  so  far 
as  I  was  concerned,  but  certainly  it  was  all 
profit.  The  novels  we  read  were  "  Tom  Jones," 
in  four  volumes,  and  "  Clarissa,"  in  its  original 
eight,  one  or  two  of  Smollett's  and  some  of 
Scott's.  Rossetti  had  not,  I  think,  been  a  great 
reader  of  English  fiction  (French  he  knew  bet- 

172 


FIRST  WEEKS   IN   VALE  OF   ST.  JOHN 

ter),  but  bis  critical  judgment  on  novels  was  in 
some  respects  tbe  surest  and  soundest  I  have 
ever  known.  Notbing  escaped  bim.  His  alert 
mind  seized  upon  everytbing.  He  bad  never 
before,  I  tliink,  given  any  tbougbt  to  fiction  as 
an  art,  but  bis  intellect  played  over  it  like  a 
brigbt  ligbt.  It  amazes  me  now,  after  twenty 
years'  close  study  of  tbe  metbods  of  story-tell- 
ing, to  recall  tbe  general  principles  wbicb  be 
seemed  to  formulate  out  of  tbe  back  of  bis  bead 
for  tbe  defence  of  bis  swift  verdicts. 

"  Now,  wby  I "  I  would  say,  wben  tbe  art  of 
tbe  novelist  seemed  to  me  to  fail  in  imaginative 
grip. 

"  Because  so-and-so  must  bappen,"  Rossetti 
would  answer. 

He  was  always  rigbt.  He  grasped  witb  mas- 
terly strengtb  tbe  operation  of  tbe  two  funda- 
mental factors  in  tbe  novelist's  art — tbe  sym- 
pathy and  tbe  "  tragic  miscbief ."  If  tbese  were 
not  working  well,  be  knew  by  tbe  end  of  tbe 
first  cbapters  tbat,  bowever  fine  in  observation 
or  racy  in  bumour  or  true  in  patbos,  tbe  work 
as  an  organism  must  fail. 

It  was  an  education  in  itself  to  sbarpen  one's 
wits  on  sucb  a  grindstone,  to  clarify  one's 
tbougbts  in  sucb  a  stream,  to  strengtben  one's 
imagination  by  contact  with  a  mind  tbat  was 

173 


MY    STORY 

of  "  ima£>-mation  all  compact " ;  but  how  did 
Eossetti,  who  had  spent  his  energies  on  two 
other  arts,  know  the  things  that  are  hidden  for 
all  time  from  nine-tenths  of  the  professional 
guides  to  fiction?  What  explanation  is  possi- 
ble except  the  one  I  have  given  before,  that 
Eossetti  was  the  one  man  I  ever  met  who  gave 
me  a  sense  of  the  presence  of  a  gift  that  is 
above  and  apart  from  talent — in  a  word, genius? 

Down  to  that  time,  when  I  was  beginning  to 
live  in  the  outer  courts  of  literature  as  a  lec- 
turer and  as  an  occasional  reviewer  on  the  two 
literary  journals,  the  Athenmum  and  the  Acad- 
emy, it  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  might 
write  a  novel.  But  I  began  to  think  of  it  then 
as  a  remote  possibility,  and  the  immediate  sur- 
roundings of  our  daily  life  brought  back  recol- 
lections of  certain  Cumbrian  legends.  I  told 
one  of  the  stories  to  Eossetti,  and  he  was  im- 
pressed by  it;  yet  he  strongly  advised  me  not 
to  tackle  it,  because  he  saw  no  way  of  getting 
sympathy  into  it  on  any  side. 

"  But  why  not  try  your  hand  at  a  Manx 
story?  "  he  said,  remembering  my  Manx  origin. 
"  The  Bard  of  Manxland — it's  worth  while  to 
be  that." 

I  thought  so,  too,  and  hence  Eossetti  was  in 
some  sort  the  foster-father  of  the  novels  with 

174 


FIRST  WEEKS  IN   VALE  OF   ST.  JOHN 

which,  perhaps,  more  than  any  other  efforts  of 
mine,  my  name  has  since  been  associated. 

Rossetti  was  not  one  of  the  people  who  live 
over  and  over  again  the  lives  they  lived  in  their 
youth,  l)iit  during  those  first  cheerful  weeks  in 
Cumberland,  prompted  thereto  by  my  inquiries, 
he  talked  a  good  deal  in  an  easy  and  familiar 
way  about  the  men  and  women  he  had  known 
in  earlier  years.  They  pass  before  me  now,  as 
they  appeared  in  Rossetti's  graphic  sketches, 
these  people  of  the  world  he  used  to  live  in, 
some  of  them  grim  and  lugubrious  forms, 
slightly  distorted  by  caricature,  others  rather 
rakish  young  figures  out  of  the  borderland  of 
a  somewhat  boisterous  Bohemia. 

Not  to  charge  Rossetti  too  strictly  with  re- 
sponsibility for  what  comes  back  to  me  across 
the  space  of  so  many  years,  I  will  give  a  sum- 
mary of  his  reminiscences.  Thus  he  talked  of 
George  Eliot,  then  lately  dead,  with  her  longj 
weird,  horsey  face — a  good  woman,  modest,  re- 
tiring, and  amial)le  to  a  fault  when  the  outer 
crust  of  reticence  had  been  broken  through. 
Then  of  her  companion,  Lewes,  with  his  shaggy 
eyebrows,  and  of  how,  at  George  Eliot's  re- 
quest, he  had  sent  a  photograph  of  his  "  Ham- 
let "  when  Lewes,  who  was  a  kind  of  amateur 
actor,  was  about  to  play  the  part. 

175 


MY    STORY 

Then  he  talked  of  Mrs.  Carl  vie  (how  much  he 
knew  of  her  I  cannot  remember)  as  a  clever  but 
rather  bitter  little  woman  with  the  one  redeem- 
ing quality  of  unostentatious  charity.  "  The 
poor  of  Chelsea  alwaj^s  spoke  well  of  her,"  he 
said.  Then  of  Carlyle  himself,  with  a  tinge  of 
personal  dislike,  telling  how  Bell  Scott  sent  the 
Seer  his  first  volume,  "  Poems  of  a  Painter,"  a 
title  which,  being  in  florid  lettering  of  the  poet's 
engraving,  was  mistaken  for  "  Poems  of  a 
Printer,"  and  called  forth  a  letter  beginning, 
"  If  a  printer  has  anything  to  say,  why  in  the 
name  of  heaven  doesn't  he  say  it,  and  not 
sing  it  ?  " 

Then  of  Scott  walking  with  Carlyle  on  the 
Chelsea  Embankment,  and  pouring  out  his  soul 
in  a  rhapsody  on  Shelley,  until  the  grim  philos- 
opher stopped  him  and  said,  "  Yon  man  Shelley 
was  just  a  scoundrel,  and  ought  to  have  been 
hanged,"  a  crushing  blow  which  was  atoned  for 
a  few  hours  afterward  when  there  came  as  a 
present  to  Scott's  house  from  Carlyle's  the  bust 
of  Shelley  which  had  been  made  by  Mrs.  Shelley 
and  given  to  Leigh  JTunt.  Finally,  of  Carlyle 
walking  with  William  Allingham  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  Kensington  Museum,  and  an- 
nouncing his  intention  of  writing  a  life  of 
Michael  Angelo,  and  then  adding,  by  way  of 

176 


FIRST  WEEKS  IN  VALE  OF   ST.  JOHN 

remonstrance  against  his  companion's  quick- 
ening interest,  "  But,  mind  ye,  I'll  no  say  much 
about  his  art." 

He  talked  of  Browning,  too,  claiming  to  be 
one  of  the  poet's  first  admirers,  and  describing 
him  as  he  used  to  be — spruce,  almost  dapper, 
wearing  gloves  that  seemed  to  have  grown  on 
his  shapely  hands,  more  than  hinting  that  per- 
haps he  gave  himself  up  too  much  to  society, 
and  saying,  "  Dull  dogs  for  the  most  part,  those 
fashionable  folk,  yet  they  treat  a  man  of  genius 
as  if  he  were  a  superior  flunkey."  He  talked 
of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  too,  with  re- 
spect amounting  almost  to  reverence. 

Of  Tennyson,  also,  he  talked  with  warmth, 
imitating  the  sonorous  tones  of  his  glorious 
voice,  but  betraying  a  certain  soreness  at  the 
recollection  that,  to  avoid  an  opinion  on  the 
"  Poems,"  the  Laureate  had  merely  acknowl- 
edged the  arrival  of  the  book.  Then  he  told  a 
story  of  Longfellow,  "  the  good  old  bard  " ;  how 
the  poet  had  called  on  him  during  his  visit  to 
England  and  been  courteous  and  kind  in  the 
last  degree,  but  having  fallen  into  the  error  of 
thinking  that  Rossetti  the  painter  and  Rossett 
the  poet  were  different  men,  he  had  said,  on 
leaving  the  house : 

"  I  have  been  very  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr. 

177 


1 


MY    STORY 

Eossetti,  and  should  like  to  have  met  your 
brother  also.  Pray  tell  him  how  much  I  ad- 
mire his  beautiful  poem,  '  The  Blessed  Damo- 
zeL' " 

Rossetti's  talk  about  Ruskin  was,  I  thought, 
curiously  contradictory  in  tone  and  feeling,  be- 
ing sometimes  tender,  generous,  highly  appre- 
ciative, and  warmly  affectionate,  and  sometimes 
grudging  and  even  hostile,  as  when,  in  reply 
to  something  I  had  said  about  a  difference  with 
Madox  Brown  on  the  subject  of  Ruskin's  eco- 
nomic propaganda,  he  said: 

"  Brown  is  one  of  the  most  naturally  and 
genially  gifted  talkers  I  know,  but  that  mention 
of  yours  of  the  biggest  of  all  big  R's  was  just 
the  unluckiest  thing  you  could  have  said.  And 
I  myself  think  that  the  talk  from  and  about  that 
particular  Capital  Letter  is  already  enough  for 
several  universes,  only  don't  say  I  said  so,  as 
he  is  an  old  acquaintance." 

If,  after  so  many  years,  both  Rossetti  and 
Ruskin  being  dead,  I  disregard  the  warning  of 
these  last  words,  it  is  only  to  say  that  always 
in  the  talk  of  the  one  about  the  other  there  was 
this  note  of  desire  to  avoid  the  appearance  of 
disloyalty  to  a  friend  of  former  years  who  was 
a  friend  no  longer.  I  should  have  said  that 
there  had  been  a  short  period  in  which  Ruskin 

178 


RUSKIN    AND    ROSSETTI. 


FIRST  WEEKS  IN  VALE  OF  ST.  JOHN 

and  Rossetti  had  been  on  terms  of  the  closest 
intimacy,  and  that  an  estrangement  had  fol- 
lowed that  was  due  merely  to  that  gradual 
asundering  which  is  more  fatal  to  friendship 
than  the  most  violent  quarrel.  The  period  of 
intimacy  had  apparently  covered  the  most 
tragic  moment  of  Ruskin's  life,  for  I  recall  a 
story  which  Rossetti  told  of  the  dark  days  of 
his  friend's  marriage  and  separation. 

Ruskin  and  his  wife  had  gone  up,  I  think,  to 
Scotland,  and  there  Millais  had  joined  them 
with  the  object  of  painting  a  picture.  The  pic- 
ture represented  the  author  standing  at  the  foot 
of  a  waterfall,  and  when  it  was  finished  it  be- 
came Ruskin's  property,  and  he  took  it  back 
with  him  to  London.  Then  the  storm  cloud 
burst  which  separated  Ruskin  from  his  wife 
and  gave  her  to  his  friend,  whereupon  Ruskin's 
father,  thinking  he  saw  in  the  portrait  of  his 
son  the  first  indications  of  a  malign  intent, 
wished  to  put  his  penknife  through  the  picture. 
But  Ruskin  himself,  whose  love  of  a  work  of 
art  was  greater  than  his  hatred  of  the  artist, 
smuggled  the  incriminating  canvas  into  a  cal) 
and  carried  it  off  to  Rossetti's  studio,  begging 
that  it  should  be  hidden  awav  until  his  father's 
anger  had  cooled. 

Brighter  and  better,  however,  because  more 

179 


MY    STORY 

easy  and  familiar,  than  Rossetti's  talk  of  the 
people  who  had  stood  a  little  apart  from  him 
were  his  sketches  of  his  own  particular  circle 
in  the  days  of  their  beginnings  in  art  and  lit- 
erature, when  all  the  world  was  young:  of 
Swinburne,  with  his  small  body  and  great  head, 
full  of  modern  revolutionary  fire  and  the  cour- 
age of  an  ancient  morality  whereof  his  personal 
conduct  was  as  innocent  as  a  child's ;  of  Burne- 
Jones,  with  his  delicate  face,  and  eyes  that  were 
alight  with  dreams,  a  strong  soul  in  a  frail 
body,  a  sword  too  keen  for  the  scabbard;  of 
Morris  ("  Topsy,"  he  called  him),  with  his 
rather  rugged  Scandinavian  personality,  writ- 
ing some  of  the  "  Earthly  Paradise,"  I  think, 
at  ChejTie  Walk,  and  declaiming  it  aloud  from 
a  balcony  at  the  back,  to  the  consternation  of 
the  neighbours  who  saw  a  shock-headed  man 
shouting  at  nothing  in  the  garden  below;  of 
Millais,  something  of  a  "  swell " ;  of  Holman 
Hunt,  more  humbly  bom,  with  himself  in  a 
social  condition  somewhere  between;  of  Madox 
Brown,  with  his  sense  of  personal  dignity  and 
his  respect  for  the  proprieties,  sometimes  out- 
raged by  Rossetti's  utter  disregard  of  appear- 
ances, as  when,  out  together  in  Ilolbom,  Ros- 
setti  stopped  at  a  potato  stall  on  the  pavement, 
bought   two   pennyworth   of  roasted  potatoes, 

180 


FIRST  WEEKS  IN  VALE  OF   ST.  JOHN 

and  ate  them  as  lie  walked  along,  while  Brown, 
in  high  dudgeon,  walked  parallel  with  him  on 
the  other  side  of  the  street. 

Then  there  were  Rossetti's  sketches  of  the 
bright  days  at  Oxford,  when  the  group  of  young 
artists  were  painting  the  frescoes  in  the  Union 
debating  room,  being  always  in  want  of  female 
models  and  daily  discovering  "  stunners."  And 
finally,  there  were  faint  glimpses  of  almost 
fatal  flirtations  on  that  borderland  of  a  rather 
boisterous  Bohemia  when  Rossetti,  in  his  tu- 
multuous youth,  walking  in  Vauxhall  gardens, 
came  upon  a  bouncing  girl  fresh  from  the  coun- 
try, with  a  great  mass  of  the  red  hair  he  loved 
to  paint,  cracking  nuts  with  her  white  teeth  and 
throwing  the  shells  at  him. 

Pale  phantoms  of  the  figures  that  floated 
through  Rossetti's  stories  of  these  earlier  years, 
how  they  rise  around  me!  And  if  I  present 
them  now,  it  is  as  witnesses  to  the  cheerful 
mood  of  the  poet  during  those  first  weeks  in 
Cumberland  rather  than  as  wraiths  to  be  chal- 
lenged too  literally  after  moving  in  my  mem- 
ory through  so  many  years. 

The  change  of  air  and  scene  had  apparently 

made   the   most    astonishing    improvement    in 

Rossetti's  health,  and  we  began  to  encourage 

hopes  of  a  complete  recovery.    It  was  a  splen- 

13  181 


MY    STORY 

did  dream,  full  of  great  possibilities  for  the 
future.  After  all,  lie  was  only  fifty-three  years 
of  age,  and  he  had  a  world  of  work  in  his  heart 
and  brain  which  he  had  hardly  attempted  to 
realise.  Thus  we  nourished  our  glorious  hopes, 
and  I  think  there  were  moments  when  even 
Eossetti  himself  appeared  to  share  them. 


CHAPTER   VII 

LAST    WEEKS   IN    THE    VALE    OF    ST.    JOHN 

OUR  dream  was  not  to  be  realised.  After 
a  while  Rossetti's  physical  vigour  be- 
came sensibly  less,  and  his  spirits  de- 
clined rapidly.  He  painted  very  little,  and 
made  no  attempt  to  write  the  ballad  which  he 
had  »§poken  of  as  likely  to  grow  in  the  midst 
of  our  romantic  surroundings.  I  think  now  that 
perhaps  these  surroundings  themselves  had 
some  effect  in  lowering  the  condition  of  his 
health.  Exhilarating  and  inspiring  as  the 
scenery  of  the  Lake  country  certainly  is  in 
the  cheerful  days  of  summer,  it  is  depressing 
enough  when  the  leaves  fall  and  the  bracken 
withers  and  the  deepening  autumn  drives  long 
dun-coloured  clouds  across  the  vallej^s,  cutting 
off  the  mountain  tops  and  deadening  the  air 
as  with  the  daily  march  of  noiseless  thunder- 
storms. And  Rossetti  seemed  to  feel  the  effect  of 
the  dying  year  in  a  coimtry  which  gives  one  the 
sense  of  being  shut  in  by  mountain  and  cloud. 

183 


MY    STORY 

Once  a  week  I  had  to  leave  him  for  a  day 
and  a  lialf  to  fulfil  my  lecturing  engagement 
in  Liverpool,  and  the  increasing  earnestness 
with  which  the  reticent  Cumbrian  dalesman, 
who  always  met  me  on  my  return  with  a  dog- 
cart at  the  station,  used  to  say,  "  You'll  be  wel- 
come back,  sir,"  told  me  but  too  plainly  that 
Rossetti's  health  and  spirits  were  sinking  fast. 

Week  after  week  I  brought  back  great  stories 
of  how  the  world  was  ringing  with  his  praises, 
but  save  for  a  momentary  emotion,  betraying 
itself  in  a  certain  tremor  of  the  voice  as  he 
said,  "  That's  good,  very  good,"  I  saw  no  sign 
of  real  interest  in  his  growing  fame,  certainly 
no  heartening  and  uplifting  effect  produced 
by  it. 

I  tried  in  vain  to  interest  him  in  the  literary 
associations  of  the  district.  It  was  perhaps 
natural  that  Grasmere  could  not  draw  him, 
even  though  he  could  think  of  Dove  Cottage 
not  only  in  connection  with  Wordsworth  (whom 
he  did  not  worship),  but  also  with  De  Quincey 
and  that  Eastern  opium-eater  who  perhaps 
wandered  out  of  a  distempered  imagination 
into  that  secluded  dale.  I  could  not  get  him  to 
go  with  me  to  Keswick,  only  five  miles  away, 
to  look  at  Greta  Hall,  sacred  to  the  memory  of 
Southey's  stainless  life,  or  at  the  cottage  on 

184 


LAST   WEEKS   IN   VALE   OF   ST.   JOHN 

Castlerigg,  where  Shelley  ("as  mad  there  as 
anywhere  else,  madder  he  could  not  be  ")  strug- 
gled with  the  burglars  and  chased  the  ghosts, 
and  not  even  Borrowdale,  scene  of  the  second 
part  of  "  Christabel,"  could  draw  him  to  the 
cliffs  that  had  been  rent  asunder  in  the  passage 
he  liked  the  best  of  the  poet  he  admired  the 
most. 

Even  his  daily  walks  became  shorter  day  by 
day,  sometimes  as  far  as  to  the  "  Nag's  Head," 
on  the  south  or  the  mouth  of  the  valley  road 
on  the  north,  but  generally  no  more  than  a 
few  hundred  yards  along  the  high-road  to  right 
or  left,  ending  too  frequently  in  a  long  rest  on 
the  grass,  however  damp  from  dew  or  rain. 

If  Rossetti's  days  were  now  cheerless  and 
heavy,  what  shall  I  say  of  the  nights?  At  that 
time  of  the  year  the  night  closed  in  as  early 
as  seven  o'clock,  and  then  in  that  little  house 
■  among  the  solitary  hills  his  disconsolate  spirit 
would  sometimes  sink  beyond  solace  into  irre- 
claimable depths  of  depression.  Night  after 
night  we  sat  up  imtil  eleven,  twelve,  one,  and 
two  o'clock,  watching  the  long  hours  go  by  with 
heavy  steps,  waiting,  waiting,  waiting  for  the 
time  at  which  he  could  take  his  first  draught 
of  chloral,  drop  back  on  to  his  pillow,  and 
snatch  three  or  four  hours  of  dreamless  sleep. 

185 


l\Y   STORY 

In  order  to  break  the  monotony  of  such 
nights,  Rossetti  would  sometimes  recite.  His 
memory  was  marvellous,  and  he  could  remem- 
ber every  line  of  his  own  two  volumes,  as  well 
as  long  passages  from  other  poets.  Thus,  with 
failing  voice,  he  would  again  and  again  at- 
tempt, at  my  request,  his  great  "  Cloud  Con- 
fines," or  stanzas  from  "  The  King's  Trag- 
edy," and  repeatedly,  also,  Poe's  "  Ulalume " 
and  "  Raven."  Even  yet  I  can  hear  the  deep 
boom  of  his  barytone,  rolling  out  like  an  or- 
gan that  seemed  to  shake  the  walls  of  the 
little  room — 

"  'Twas  then  the  moon  sailed  clear  of  the  rack 
On  high  in  her  hollow  dome." 

And  I  can  hear,  too,  the  panting  breath  that 
too  often  followed  on  his  exertions  as  he 
stopped  in  his  peram])ulations  to  and  fro  and 
sank  into  a  chair. 

It  was  ])erhaps  natural  enough  that  in  this 
condition  of  health  and  spirits,  amid  surround- 
ings which  I  now  see  were  entirely  wrong  for 
him,  though  I  had  been  chiefly  responsible  for 
them,  the  craving  for  the  chloral  should  in- 
crease. Not  soon  shall  I  forget  some  of  my 
experiences  in  that  relation,  and  if  I  tell  the 
story  of  one  of  them,  and  for  the  last  time 

186 


LAST   WEEKS   IN   VALE   OF   ST.   JOHN 

lay  bare  the  infirmity  (already  well  known  and 
much  misunderstood)  of  the  great  man  who 
was  my  intimate  friend,  it  shall  only  be  to  show 
how  the  noblest  nature  may  be  corrupted,  the 
largest  soul  made  small  by  indulgence  in  a 
damnable  drug. 

I  have  said  that  on  the  night  I  first  slept  at 
Cheyne  Walk,  Rossetti,  coming  into  my  room 
at  the  last  moment  before  going  to  bed,  told  me 
that  he  had  just  taken  sixty  grains  of  chloral, 
that  in  four  hours  he  would  take  sixty  more, 
and  four  later  yet  another  sixty.  Wliether 
there  was  a  conscious  exaggeration  or  whether 
(being  incapable  of  affectation  or  untruthful- 
ness) he  was  deceived  by  his  doctors  for  the 
good  purpose  of  operating  to  advantage  on  his 
all-potent  imagination,  I  do  not  know,  but  I  do 
know  that  when  the  chloral  came  under  my  own 
control  I  was  strictly  warned  that  one  bottle  at 
one  dose  was  all  that  it  was  necessary  or  safe 
for  Rossetti  to  take.  This  single  bottle  (by 
Dr.  Marshall's  advice)  I  gave  him  on  going 
to  bed,  and  we  made  the  hour  of  retiring  as 
late  as  possible  so  that  when  he  awoke  it  might 
be  dav. 

But  the  power  of  the  dose  was  now  decreas- 
ing rapidly,  and  hence  it  came  to  pass  that 
toward  four  o'clock,  in  the  leaden  light  of  early 

187 


MY    STORY 

dawn,  Eossetti  would  come  to  my  room  and 
beg  for  more.  Let  those  who  never  knew  Ros- 
setti  censure  me,  if  they  think  well,  for  yielding 
at  last  to  his  pathetic  importunities.  The  low, 
pleading  voice,  the  note  of  pain,  the  awful  sense 
of  a  body  craving  rest  and  a  brain  praying  for 
unconsciousness — they  are  with  me  even  yet  in 
my  memories  of  the  man  sitting  on  the  side 
of  my  bed  and  asking  for  my  pity  and  my  for- 
giveness. 

These  were  among  the  moments  when  Ros- 
setti  was  utterly  irresistible,  but  to  compromise 
with  my  conscience  I  would  give  him  half  a 
bottle  more  and  he  would  go  off  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  content.  The  result  was  disastrous 
enough,  but  in  a  way  that  might  have  been  least 
expected. 

I  was  already  painfully  aware  of  the  corrod- 
ing influence  of  the  drug  on  Rossetti's  better 
nature,  and  one  morning,  as  I  took  out  of  its 
hiding-place  the  key  that  was  to  open  the  glass 
doors  of  the  little  cabinet  which  contained  the 
chloral,  I  caught  a  look  in  his  eyes  which  seemed 
to  say  that  in  future  he  would  find  it  for  him- 
self. To  meet  the  contingency,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  test  a  theory  which  I  had  begun  to 
cherish,  that  the  drug  was  only  necessary  to 
Rossetti  because  he  believed  it  to  be  so,  I  de- 

188 


LAST   WEEKS   IN   VALE    OP    ST.   JOHN 

cided  to  try  an  experiment,  and  so  defeat  by 
a  trick  the  trick  I  expected. 

The  solution  of  chloral  was  hardly  distin- 
guishable at  any  time  from  pure  water,  and 
certainly  not  at  all  in  the  dead  white  light  of 
dawn,  so,  with  the  connivance  of  the  nurse,  I. 
opened  a  bottle,  emptied  it  of  the  drug,  filled 
it  afresh  with  water,  corked  and  covered  it 
again  with  its  parchment  cap  tied  about  with 
its  collar  of  red  string,  j^laced  it  in  the  cabinet, 
and  then  awaited  results. 

Next  morning  I  awoke  of  myself  exactly  at 
the  hour  at  which  Rossetti  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  awaken  me,  and  I  heard  him  coming 
as  noiselessly  as  he  could  down  the  corridor 
toward  my  room.  He  opened  the  door,  leaned 
over  me  to  satisfy  himself  that  I  was  asleep, 
fumbled  for  and  found  the  key  to  the  cabinet, 
opened  it,  took  away  the  bottle  I  had  left  ready 
for  him,  and  then  crept  back  to  bed.  After 
some  ten  minutes  or  more  I  rose  and  went  to 
his  room  to  see  what  had  occurred,  and  there, 
sure  enough,  lay  Rossetti,  sleeping  soundly,  and 
my  bottle  of  water  standing  empty  on  the  table 
by  his  side. 

In  my  ignorance,  I  imagined  I  had  solved 
the  problem  of  Rossetti' s  insomnia  (of  nearly 
all  insomnia),  and  found  the  remedy  for  half 

189 


MY    STORY 

the  troubles  of  his  troiil:)led  life.  He  was  in- 
deed "  of  imagination  all  compact,"  and  if  we 
could  only  continue  to  make  him  think  he  was 
consuming  chloral  while  he  was  really  drinking 
water,  we  should  in  good  time  conquer  his  bane- 
ful habit  altogether. 

What  the  result  might  have  been  of  any  con- 
sistent attempt  to  put  my  theory  into  practice 
it  is  not  possible  for  me  to  say,  for  fate  was 
stronger  than  good  intentions  and  my  experi- 
ment w^as  not  to  be  repeated.  While  I  was  out 
walking  the  next  morning  the  nurse  told  the 
whole  story  to  Rossetti  in  a  well-meant  but 
foolish  attempt  to  triumph  over  his  melancholy, 
and  then  more  mischief  was  done  than  the  mis- 
chief we  had  tried  to  undo. 

Besides  the  crushing  humiliation  that  came 
to  him  with  the  consciousness  of  the  lowering 
of  his  moral  nature  from  the  use  of  the  drug, 
and  of  our  being  so  obviously  aware  of  it,  there 
was  the  fact  that  from  that  day  forward  he 
believed  we  were  always  deceiving  him,  and 
that  what  we  gave  him  for  chloral  was  mainly 
water.  As  if  to  establish  my  theory  that  Eos- 
setti's  body  answered  entirely  to  the  mood  of 
his  mind,  sleep  from  that  day  forward  refused 
to  come  to  him  at  all  after  the  single  bottle 
which  the  doctor  had  prescribed.    Then  the  dose 

190 


LAST   WEEKS   IN   VALE   OF   ST.   JOHN 

had,  of  necessity,  to  be  increased;  and  when, 
in  alarm  at  the  consequences,  I  refused  to  go 
farther,  Rossetti  resorted  to  other  aids  to  in- 
duce sleep  that  chloral  of  itself  would  not 
bring. 

It  was  impossible  that  such  a  condition  of 
things  should  last,  and  it  was  with  unspeakable 
relief  that  1  heard  Rossetti  express  a  desire 
to  go  back  to  London.  Before  that  the  nurse 
had  already  gone,  and  I  had  for  some  little 
time  been  alone  with  the  poet.  Correspondence 
he  had  always  kept  up  with  the  friends  of  his 
immediate  circle,  with  his  brother  William,  with 
Watts,  and,  I  think,  with  Shields,  and  this  had 
brought  a  constant  flow  of  interests  into  his 
life;  but  now  he  was  becoming  more  and  more 
dependent  upon  personal  company  that  should 
not  fail  him,  and  never  for  an  hour  now  could 
he  bear  to  be  alone.  Strange  enough  it  seemed 
that  the  man  who  for  so  many  years  had 
shunned  the  world  and  chosen  solitude  when 
he  might  have  had  society,  seemed  at  last  to 
grow  weary  of  his  loneliness.  But  so  it  was, 
and  whatever  the  value  of  my  own  company 
in  the  days  when  I  came  up  to  him  out  of  the 
fresh  air  of  a  widely  different  world,  I  was 
growing  painfully  aware  that  it  was  very  little 
I  could  do  for  him  now. 

191 


V 


MY    STORY 

I  had  tried  to  cheek  the  craving  for  chloral, 
but  unwittingly  I  had  done  worse  than  not 
check  it,  and  where  the  lifelong  efforts  of  older 
friends  had  failed  to  eradicate  a  morbid,  ruin- 
ous, and  fatal  thirst  it  seemed  presumptuous, 
if  not  ridiculous,  to  think  that  the  task  of  con- 
quering it  could  be  compassed  by  a  young  fel- 
low with  heart  and  nerves  of  wax.  Moreover, 
the  whole  scene  was  beginning  to  have  an  effect 
upon  myself  that  was  more  personal  and  more 
serious  than  I  have  yet  given  hint  of.  The 
constant  fret  and  fume  of  this  life  of  baffled 
effort,  of  struggle  with  a  deadly  drug  that  had 
grown  to  have  a  separate  existence  in  my  mind 
as  the  existence  of  a  fiend,  was  beginning  to 
make  me  ill,  and,  utterly  disastrous  as  our  visit 
to  Cumberland  had  been  on  the  whole,  and 
largely  responsible  as  I  felt  for  it,  I  jumped 
eagerly  at  the  opportunity  of  going  home. 

Many  were  the  preparations  that  had  to  be 
gone  through  again  before  we  could  make  a 
move:  easels  and  canvases  to  pack,  and  a  spe- 
cial saloon  carriage  to  bring  round  from  the 
junction  to  our  wayside  platform,  so  that  we 
might  go  u))  without  a  change,  and  at  night — 
above  all,  at  night — to  avoid  the  distraction  of 
day  and  the  eyes  of  the  people  on  the  stations 
at  which  the  train  might  stop.     But  at  length, 

192 


LAST   WEEKS   IN   VALE   OF   ST.   JOHN 

one  evening  in  the  gathering  darkness,  a  little 
more  than  a  month  after  our  arrival,  we  were 
back  at  Threlkeld  in  a  carriage,  which  half  an 
hour  later  was  coupled  at  Penrith  to  the  Scotch 
express  to  London. 

Never  shall  I  forget  that  journey. 

Whether  Rossetti  took  his  usual  dose  of  the 
drug,  I  cannot  remember,  but  certainly  he  did 
not  sleep,  and  neither  did  he  compose  himself 
to  rest,  though  the  lamps  of  the  carriage  were 
darkened  by  their  shades.  During  the  greater 
part  of  the  night  he  sat  up  in  an  attitude  of 
waiting,  wearing  overcoat  and  hat  and  gloves, 
as  if  our  journey  were  to  end  at  the  next  stop- 
ping-place; but  at  intervals  he  made  effort  to 
walk  to  and  fro  in  the  jolting  saloon,  as  it  was 
his  habit  to  do  in  his  own  studio. 

Hour  after  hour  passed  in  this  way,  while 
the  lights  of  the  stations  flashed  by  the  cur- 
tained windows,  and  I  looked  out  from  time 
to  time  to  see  how  far  we  had  gone,  how  near 
we  were  to  the  end.  The  night  was  very  long, 
and  Rossetti's  spirits  were  more  disconsolate 
than  I  had  ever  known  them  to  be  before. 

Undoubtedly  there  was  enough  in  the  circum- 
stances of  our  return  to  London  to  justify  the 
deepest  depression.  Rossetti  had  gone  to  Cum- 
berland solely  in  the  interests  of  his  failing 

193 


MY    STORY 

health,  and  he  was  returning  in  far  worse  con- 
dition. The  flicker  of  hope  which  had  come 
with  his  first  apparent  imiDrovement  had  made 
the  sadness  of  his  relapse  more  dark.  In  the 
light  of  subsequent  events  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  say  that  he  exaggerated  the  gravity 
of  his  symptoms,  but  it  was  only  too  clear  that 
he  thought  he  was  going  home  to  die. 

As  the  hours  went  on  he  was  full  of  lamen- 
tations, and  I  was  making  feeble  efforts,  over 
the  rattle  and  clanging  of  the  car,  to  sustain 
the  pitiful  insincerity  of  the  comforter  who  has 
no  real  faith  in  his  own  comforting,  for  I,  too, 
had  begun  to  believe  that  the  road  for  Rossetti 
was  all  downhill  now. 

It  is  not  for  me,  who  by  virtue  of  the  closest 
intimacy  was  loermitted  to  see  a  great  and  un- 
happy man  in  his  mood  of  most  vehement  sor- 
row and  self-reproach,  to  uncover  his  naked 
soul  for  any  jiurpose  less  sacred  than  that  of 
justifying  his  character  against  misrepresenta- 
tion or  bringing  his  otherwise  wayward  con- 
duct and  mysterious  life  within  the  range  of 
sympathy,  and  if  I  go  farther  with  the  story 
of  this  terrible  night,  it  is  with  the  hope  of 
that  result,  and  no  other. 

Rossetti's  words  during  the  hours  that  fol- 
lowed I  cannot,  except  in  broken  passages,  re- 

194 


LAST   WEEKS   IN   VALE   OF   ST.   JOHN 

call;  and  if  I  could  recall  them,  I  should  not 
set  them  down,  so  deep  was  the  distress  with 
which  they  were  spoken  and  the  emotion  with 
which  they  were  heard ;  but  I  can  at  least  indi- 
cate the  impressions  they  left  on  me  then,  as  a 
young  man  who  had  known  no  more  down  to 
that  moment  than  most  of  his  other  friends  of 
some  of  the  saddest  and  darkest  chapters  of 
his  life. 

The  first  of  those  impressions  was  that  while 
the  long  indulgence  in  the  drug^ight  have 
broken  up  his  health  and  created  delusions  that 
had  alienated  friends,  it  was  not  that,  nor  yet 
the  bitterness  of  malignant  criticism,  that  had 
separated  him  from  the  world  and  destroyed 
the  happiness  of  his  life.  The  next  of  my  im- 
pressions was  that  Rossetti  had  never  forgiven 
himself  for  the  weakness  of  yielding  to  the  im- 
portunity of  friends  and  the  impulse  of  literary 
aml)ition  which  had  led  him  to  violate  the  sanc- 
tity of  his  wife's  grave  in  recovering  the  manu- 
scripts he  had  buried  in  it.  And,  above  all,  it 
was  my  impression  that  Rossetti  had  never 
ceased  to  reproach  himself  with  his  wife's  death 
as  an  event  that  had  been  due  in  some  degree 
to  failure  of  duty  on  his  part,  or  perhaps  to 
something  still  graver. 

Let  me  not  seem  to  have  forgotten  that  a 

195 


I^IY    STOEY 

generous  soul  in  the  hours  of  deepest  contrition 
will  load  itself  with  responsibilities  that  are  far 
beyond  its  own,  and  certainly  it  was  not  for  me 
to  take  too  literally  all  the  burning  words  of 
self-reproach  which  Rossetti  heaped  upon  him- 
self. If  I  had  now  to  reconstruct  his  life 
afresh  from  the  impressions  of  that  night,  I 
think  it  would  be  a  far  more  human,  more 
touching,  more  affectionate,  more  unselfish, 
more  intelligible  figure  that  would  emerge 
than  the  one  hitherto  known  to  the  world. 

It  would  be  the  figure  of  a  man  who,  after 
engaging  himself  to  one  woman  in  all  honour 
and  good  faith,  had  fallen  in  love  with  another, 
and  then  gone  on  to  marry  the  first  out  of  a 
mistaken  sense  of  loyalty  and  a  fear  of  giving 
I)ain  instead  of  stopping,  as  he  must  have  done 
if  his  will  had  been  stronger  and  his  heart 
sterner,  at  the  door  of  the  church  itself.  It 
would  be  the  figure  of  a  man  who  realised  that 
the  good  woman  he  had  married  was  reading 
his  secret  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  conceal  it, 
and  thereby  losing  all  joy  and  interest  in  life. 
It  would  be  the  figure  of  a  man  who,  coming 
home  late  at  night  to  find  his  wife  dying,  prob- 
ably by  her  own  hand,  was  overwhelmed  with 
remorse,  not  perhaps  for  any  unkindness,  any 
want  of  attention,  still  less  any  act  of  infidelity 

196 


LAST   WEEKS   IN   VALE   OF   ST.   JOHN 

on  his  part,  but  for  the  far  deeper  wrong  of 
failure  of  affection  for  the  one  being  to  whom 
affection  was  most  due. 

Thus  the  burial  of  his  manuscript  in  her 
coffin  was  plainly  saving :  "  This  was  how  I 
loved  you  once,  for  these  poems  were  written 
to  and  inspired  by  you ;  and  if  I  have  wronged 
you  since  by  losing  my  love  for  you,  the  soli- 
tary text  of  them  shall  go  with  you  to  the 
grave."  Thus  the  sadness  and  gloom  of  later 
days,  after  the  poet  had  repented  of  his  sacri- 
fice and  the  poems  had  been  recovered  and  pub- 
lished, were  clearly  showing  that  Kossetti  felt 
he  had  won  his  place  among  the  English  poets 
only  by  forfeiting  the  tragic  grace  and  wasting 
the  i)oignant  pathos  of  his  first  consuming  re- 
nunciation. And  thus,  too,  the  solitude  of  his 
last  years,  with  its  sleepless  nights  and  its  de- 
lusions bom  of  indulgence  in  the  drug,  was  not 
the  result  of  morbid  brooding  over  the  insults 
of  adverse  critics,  but  of  a  deep-seated,  if 
wholly  unnecessary,  sense  as  of  a  curse  resting 
on  him  and  on  his  work,  whereof  the  malig- 
nancy of  criticism  was  only  one  of  many  mani- 
festations. 

In  this  reading  of  Rossetti's  life  there  is  no 
room  at  all  for  any  of  the  gross  accusations  of 
ill-treatment  or  neglect  which  have  been  sup- 
14  197 


MY    STORY 

posed  by  some  of  his  less  friendly  judges  to 
have  burdened  his  conscience  with  regard  to 
his  wife.  There  was  not  one  word  in  his  self- 
reproach  which  conveyed  to  my  mind  a  sense 
of  anything  so  mean  as  that,  and  nothing  I  knew 
of  Rossetti's  tenderness  of  character  would 
have  allowed  me  to  believe  for  a  moment  that 
he  could  be  guilty  of  conscious  cruelty.  But 
there  was  indeed  something  here  that  was 
deeper  and  more  terrible,  if  more  spiritual — 
one  of  those  tragic  entanglements  from  which 
there  is  no  escape  because  fate  itself  has  made 
them. 

All  I  knew  of  Rossetti,  all  he  had  told  me 
of  himself,  all  he  had  revealed  to  me  of  the 
troubles  of  his  soul,  all  that  had  seemed  so 
mysterious  in  the  conduct  of  his  life  and  the 
moods  of  his  mind,  became  clear  and  intelligible 
and  even  noble  and  deeply  touching  in  the  light 
of  his  secret,  as  I  thought  I  saw  it  for  the  first 
time  on  that  journey  from  Cumberland  to  Lon- 
don. It  lifted  him  entirely  out  of  the  character 
of  the  wayward,  weak,  uncertain,  neurotic  per- 
son who  could  put  up  a  blank  wall  about  his 
existence  because  his  wife  had  died  by  the  acci- 
dent of  miscalculating  a  dose  of  laudanum;  who 
could  do  a  grave  act  and  afterward  repent  of 
it  and  undo  it;  who  could  finally  shut  himself 
up  as  a  hermit  and  encourage  a  hundred  delu- 

198 


LAST   WEEKS   IN   VALE   OF   ST.   JOHN 

sions  about  the  world  because  a  rival  poet  had 
resented  his  success.  Out  of  all  this  it  raised 
him  into  the  place  of  one  of  the  great  tragic 
figures  of  literature,  one  of  the  great  lovers 
whose  lives,  as  well  as  their  works,  speak  to  the 
depth  of  their  love  or  the  immensity  of  their 
remorse. 

It  has  only  been  with  a  thrill  of  the  heart 
and  a  trembling  hand  that  I  have  written  this, 
but  I  have  written  it,  and  now  I  shall  let  it 
go  because  I  feel  that,  however  it  may  at  first 
distress  the  little  group  who  are  all  that  are 
left  of  Rossetti's  friends,  it  is  a  true  reading 
of  the  poet's  soul,  and  one  that  ennobles  his 
memory. 

It  was  just  daylight  as  we  approached  Lon- 
don, and  when  we  arrived  at  Euston  it  was 
a  rather  cold  and  gloomy  morning.  Rossetti 
was  much  exhausted  when  we  got  into  the  om- 
nibus that  was  waiting  for  us,  and  when  we 
reached  Cheyne  Walk,  where  the  blinds  were 
still  down  in  all  the  windows,  his  spirits  were 
very  low.  I  did  my  best  to  keep  a  good  heart 
for  his  sake  as  well  as  my  own,  but  well  do  I 
remember  the  pathos  of  his  words  as  I  helped 
him,  now  feebler  than  ever,  into  his  house: 

"  Thank  God !  Home  at  last,  and  never  shall 
I  leave  it  again !  " 


CHAPTER    VIII 


BACK    IN    CHELSEA 


VEEY  deep  and  natural  was  the  concern 
of  Rossetti's  older  friends  on  seeing  how 
wretched  and  stricken  he  looked  on  his 
return  to  London.  That  going  to  the  moun- 
tains instead  of  to  the  sea  had  been  a  grievous 
mistake  was  now  apparent  to  all  of  them,  l)ut 
the  whole  extent  of  the  injury  sustained  was 
perhaps  not  at  first  realised  by  any. 

Attributing  Rossetti's  physical  prostration 
chiefly  to  hypochondriasis,  they  did  their  best 
during  the  next  few  weeks  to  induce  him  to  take 
a  hopeful  view  of  life.  The  cheerfulness  of 
their  company,  after  what  I  well  know  must 
have  been  the  lugu])rious  character  of  my  own, 
had  for  a  little  while  a  good  effect  on  Rossetti's 
spirits,  and  I  will  not  forbear  to  say  that  I,  too, 
welcomed  it  as  a  breath  of  morning  air  after 
a  long  month's  lingering  in  an  atmosphere  of 
gloom.  The  sense  of  responsibility  which  in  the 
solitude  of  the  mountains  had  weighed  me  down 

200 


BACK    IN    CHELSEA 

was  now  divided  with  the  friends  who  were 
Kossetti's  friends  before  they  were  mine. 

Foremost  among  these  friends  was  William 
Eossetti,  and  looking  back  to  his  devotion  to 
his  brother's  personal  needs  during  the  last 
months  of  the  poet's  life,  and  thinking  of  his 
constant  absorption  in  efforts  to  sustain  and 
promote  the  poet's  fame  since  his  death,  I  doubt 
if  the  whole  history  of  literary  friendships  has 
any  such  story  of  brotherly  love  and  admira- 
tion. 

Then  there  was  Frederic  Shields,  so  different 
from  Rossetti  in  personal  character  and  tem- 
perament, and  as  far  apart  from  him  as  the 
poles  in  spiritual  outlook  upon  life  and  death, 
yet  always  so  faithful  to  the  man,  so  loyal  to 
the  artist,  so  ready  to  put  aside  his  own  inter- 
ests at  the  call  of  the  poet's  needs. 

And  then,  above  all,  perhaps,  there  was 
Watts  (Watts-Dunton),  whose  affection  for 
Rossetti  and  beneficial  influence  upon  him  was 
perhaps  the  most  touching  and  beautiful  thing 
I  had  ever  witnessed.  No  light  matter  it  must 
have  been  to  lay  aside  one's  own  cherished  life- 
work  and  ambitions  to  be  Rossetti's  friend  and 
brother  at  a  time  like  this,  but  through  these 
dark  davs  Watts  was  with  him  to  comfort,  to 
divert,  to  interest,  and  to  inspire  him — asking 

201 


MY    STORY 

meantime  no  better  reward  than  the  knowledge 
that  a  noble  mind  and  nature  were  thereby  re- 
lieved from  gloom  or  lifted  out  of  sorrow. 

If  the  poet's  spirits  had  been  low  while  we 
were  in  Cumberland,  they  were  all  but  insup- 
portable during  the  first  weeks  after  our  return 
to  Chelsea.  No  longer  able  to  work  at  the  easel, 
and  full  of  apprehension  about  his  failing  sight, 
he  first  tormented  himself  with  the  fear  of  pov- 
erty. There  might,  indeed,  have  been  some 
ground  for  uneasiness  on  this  head  if  Rossetti 
had  lived,  for  though  he  had  long  earned  a 
large  income  as  a  painter,  he  had  saved  little 
or  nothing,  and  knowing  this,  he  sometimes 
made  rather  grotesque  predictions  of  absolute 
want.  Out  of  such  moods  of  despondency  he 
had  to  be  rallied  by  his  friends,  each  in  his 
different  way,  and  I  recall  with  some  amuse- 
ment and  a  good  deal  of  emotion  certain  wild 
efforts  by  Shields  to  banish  his  melancholia, 
as  well  as  some  quiet  and  touching  assurances 
by  his  brother  that  if  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst,  he  could  always  come  to  live  with  him. 

But  Rossetti's  fear  of  poverty  during  the  first 
sad  weeks  after  our  return  to  Chelsea  was  not 
so  hard  to  contend  with  as  his  dread  of  death. 
I  should  say  as  I  think  of  this  period,  that  if 
there  was  no  longer  any  passionate  longing  to 

202 


BACK    IN    CHELSEA 

live,  there  was  certainl}^,  with  a  settled  convic- 
tion that  death  was  coming,  a  wild  fear  of  dy- 
ing. What  it  was  exactly  that  was  going  on  in 
his  mind,  what  struggle  for  mastery  between 
the  will-to-live  and  the  will-to-die,  with  the 
dread  of  both,  I  cannot  say,  but  I  would  ven- 
ture the  opinion  that  he  was  shrinking  not  only 
from  the  thought  of  pain,  but  also  from  that 
sinking  into  everlasting  night  and  nothingness 
which  was  all  that,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  death 
seemed  to  mean  to  him  then. 

Never  was  I  conscious  that  religious  faith 
relieved  his  fears,  still  less  brightened  with  any 
kind  of  hope  the  prospect  of  that  passing  and 
parting  which  is  rest  and  eternal  life.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  was  often  aware  that  everything 
was  distressing  that  reminded  him  of  death. 
Belief  in  God  was  always  with  him — that  I  can 
firmly  say;  but  religion  in  the  conventional 
sense  appeared  to  irritate  him,  and  even  the 
ringing  of  the  church  bells  on  Sunday  seemed 
at  this  time  to  give  him  pain. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  sign  of  his  fear  of  death 
that  his  mind  seemed  to  be  constantly  brooding 
upon  it.  I  remember  that  one  day,  opening  a 
drawer  of  the  bookcase,  under  the  books  he 
took  out  a  long,  thick  tress  of  rich  auljum  hair, 
and  showed  it  to  me  for  a  moment.     What  he 

203 


MY    STORY 

told  me  about  it  I  cannot  say,  but  indeed  there 
was  no  need  to  tell  me  anything,  for  I  thought 
I  knew  what  it  was  and  where  it  came  from. 
That  was  one  of  those  hushed  moments  of  life 
in  which  silence  is  sacred,  and  I  will  not  break 
it  farther  even  now.  Rossetti's  downward  road 
was  marked  by  many  sign-posts  that  pointed  to 
the  past. 

In  spite  of  all  the  tender  offices  of  friends, 
his  health  declined  day  l^y  day,  and  he  began 
to  be  afflicted  by  a  violent  cough.  I  noticed 
that  it  troubled  him  most  at  night  after  the 
taking  of  the  chloral,  and  that  it  shook  his 
whole  system  so  terribly  as  to  leave  him  for  a 
\^  while  entirely  exhausted. 

The  crisis  was  pending,  and  almost  sooner 
than  any  of  us  expected  it  came.  One  evening 
a  friend  of  former  years,  Westland  Marston, 
the  dramatist,  came  with  his  son,  Philip  Bourke 
Marston,  the  blind  poet,  to  spend  a  few  hours 
with  Rossetti.  For  a  while  he  seemed  much 
cheered  by  their  company,  but  later  on  he  gave 
certain  signs  of  uneasiness  which  I  had  learned 
to  know  too  well.  Removing  restlessly  from 
seat  to  seat,  he  threw  himself  at  last  upon  the 
sofa  in  that  rather  awkward  attitude  which  I 
have  previously  described.  Presently  he  called 
out  to  me,  in  great  nervous  agitation,  that  he 

204 


BACK    IN    CHELSEA 

could  not  move  liis  arm,  and,  upon  attempt- 
ing to  rise,  that  he  had  lost  power  in  his  leg 
as  well. 

We  were  all  startled,  but  knowing  the  force 
of  Rossetti's  imagination  on  his  bodily  capac- 
ity, I  tried  to  rally  him  out  of  his  fears. 

"  Nonsense,  Rossetti,  you're  only  fancying 
it,"  I  remember  to  have  said.  But,  raising  him 
to  his  feet,  we  realised  only  too  surely  that, 
from  whatever  cause,  he  had  lost  the  use  of  his 
limbs. 

The  servants  were  called,  and  with  the  ut- 
most alarm  we  carried  Rossetti  to  his  bedroom, 
up  the  tortuous  staircase  at  the  back  of  the 
studio,  and  I  remember  the  intense  vividness 
of  his  intellect  at  the  moment  and  his  obvious 
sense  of  humiliation  at  his  helplessness  in  our 
hands. 

The  blind  poet  remained  in  the  studio  while 
we  were  taking  Rossetti  to  his  room,  and  after 
this  was  done  he  and  I  hurried  away  in  a  cab 
to  Savile  Row  to  fetch  the  doctor.  I  recall 
that  drive  through  the  streets  at  night  with  the 
blind  man,  who  had  seen  nothing  of  what  had 
occurred,  but  was  trembling  and  breathing  fast. 
An  hour  after  the  attack  the  doctor  was  in  the 
house. 

It  was  found  that  Rossetti  had  undergone  a 

205 


MY    STORY 

species  of  mild  paralysis,  called,  I  think,  loss 
of  co-ordinative  power.  The  juncture  was  a 
critical  one,  and  it  was  decided  that  the  time 
had  come  at  last  when  the  chloral,  which  was 
the  root  of  all  the  mischief,  should  be  decisively, 
entirely,  and  instantly  cut  off. 

It  is  not  for  me  to  give  an  account  of  what 
was  done  at  this  crisis.  I  only  know  that  a 
young  medical  man  was  brought  into  the  house 
as  a  resident  doctor  to  watch  the  case  during 
the  absence  of  the  physician-in-chief,  and  that 
morphia  was  at  first  injected  as  a  substitute 
for  the  narcotic  which  the  system  had  grown 
to  demand. 

I  recall  the  many  hours  in  which  Rossetti 
was  delirious  while  his  l)ody  was  passing 
through  the  terrible  ordeal  of  conquering  the 
craving  for  the  former  drug,  and  the  three  or 
four  days  succeeding  in  which  the  two  forces 
seemed  to  fight  like  demons  for  possession  of 
him.  During  this  period  his  mind  had  a  strange 
kind  of  moonlight  clearness,  with  a  plain  sense 
of  all  that  was  going  on,  a  vivid  memory  of  the 
friends  and  incidents  of  the  past,  with  a  desire 
to  write  letters  to  people  whom  he  had  not  seen 
for  years,  yet  a  total  loss  of  executive  faculty 
of  every  kind.  But  the  pathetic  phase  passed, 
and  within  a  week  after  the  experiment  had 

206 


BACK    IN    CHELSEA 

been  begun  he  awoke  one  morning,  calm  in 
body,  clear  in  mind,  and  grateful  in  heart. 

His  delusions  were  all  dead,  his  intermittent 
suspicions  of  friends  were  as  much  gone  as  if 
they  had  never  been,  and  nothing  was  left  but 
the  real  Rossetti — a  simple,  natural,  affection- 
ate, lovable  soul. 

And  now  let  me  say  that  while  it  must  have 
been  the  most  pitiful  wealmess,  not  to  say  the 
most  mistaken  tenderness  on  my  part  (after  all 
that  has  been  published  on  the  subject),  to  at- 
tempt to  conceal  an  infirmity  of  Rossetti's  mind 
which  has  led  to  much  misconception  of  his 
character,  I  feel  myself  justified  in  alluding  to 
it,  and  even  dwelling  on  some  of  its  painful 
manifestations,  for  the  sake  of  the  opportunity 
of  showing  that,  coming  with  the  drug  that 
blighted  half  his  life,  it  disappeared  when  the 
evil  had  been  removed. 

Perhaps  none  may  say  with  any  certainty  to 
what  the  use  of  the  drug  was  due,  or  what  was 
due  to  it,  though  I  have  already  given  my  opin- 
ion that  it  came  from  a  far  deeper  source  than 
the  mental  disturbance  set  up  by  adverse  criti- 
cism; but  sure  I  am,  that  the  sadder  side  of 
his  life  was  ever  under  its  shadow,  and  that 
he  was  a  new  man  on  the  day  when  it  was  over. 


CHAPTER    IX 


THE    LAST   OF    HOME 


A  S  soon  as  Rossetti  was  liimself  again  he 
/-%  began  to  see  his  friends  and  relatives — 
his  mother  and  sister,  his  brother,  now 
always  about  him,  Shields,  Madox  Brown,  and 
of  course  Watts,  who  was  with  him  every  day. 
Some  report  of  the  seizure  must  have  appeared 
in  the  newspapers,  for  I  recall  inquiries  from 
well-known  people  which  I  received  and  an- 
swered in  Rossetti's  name,  among  them  being 
a  letter  from  Sir  Henry  Taylor,  and  one  from 
Turgenieff,  who  was,  I  think,  in  London,  and 
proposed  to  call. 

I  thought  it  strange  when  I  realised  how 
strongly  Rossetti's  real  nature  possessed  the 
power  of  attaching  people  to  his  person  that  few 
letters  came  from  the  famous  men  still  living 
who  had  been  his  friends  in  earlier  years;  but 
the  link  with  the  past  was  not  entirely  broken, 
for  Burne-Jones  came  one  evening,  with  his 
delicate  and  spiritual  face  full  of  affectionate 

208 


THE    LAST    OF    HOME 

solicitude,  and  when  I  took  him  into  the  bed- 
room he  was  received  with  a  faint  echo  of  the 
cheery  "  Hulloa !  "  which  he  must  have  remem- 
bered so  well. 

Rossetti  must  have  looked  sadly  unlike  his 
former  self,  although  our  hearts  were  now  so 
cheerful  about  him,  for  when,  after  a  long  half 
hour,  the  great  painter  came  down  from  the 
bedroom  where  I  had  left  the  two  old  friends 
together,  he  was  visibly  moved,  and  at  first 
could  scarcely  speak.  .  I  remember  that  he  and 
I  dined  in  the  studio  in  the  midst  of  the  easels, 
and  that,  turning  to  an  unfinished  picture  on 
one  of  them,  he  said: 

"  They  say  Gabriel  cannot  draw,  but  look  at 
that  hand.  There  isn't  anybody  else  in  the 
world  who  can  draw  a  hand  like  that." 

Christmas  day  was  now  nigh,  and  Rossetti, 
still  confined  to  his  room,  begged  me  to  spend 
that  day  with  him.  "  Otherwise,"  he  said,  "  how 
sad  a  day  it  must  be  to  me,  for  I  cannot  fairly 
ask  any  other." 

I  had  been  asked  to  dine  at  a  more  cheerful 
house,  but  reflecting  that  this  was  my  first 
Christmas  in  London,  and  it  might  be  Rossetti's 
last,  I  readily  decided  to  do  as  he  wished.  We 
dined  alone — he  in  his  bed,  I  at  the  little  table 
at  the  foot  of  it  on  which  I  had  first  seen  the 

209 


MY   STORY 

wired  lamp  and  the  bottles  of  medicine.  Later 
in  the  evening  William  Rossetti,  with  brotherly 
affection,  left  his  children  and  guests  at  his 
own  house,  and  ran  down  to  spend  an  hour  with 
the  invalid.  As  the  night  went  on  we  could 
hear  from  time  to  time  the  ringing  of  the  bells 
of  the  neighbouring  churches,  and  I  noticed 
that  Rossetti  was  not  disturbed  by  them  as  he 
had  been  formerly. 

He  talked  that  night  brightly,  with  more  force 
and  incisiveness,  I  thought,  than  he  had  dis- 
played for  months.  There  was  the  ring  of  sin- 
cerity in  his  tone  as  he  said  he  had  always 
had  loyal  and  unselfish  friends;  and  then  he 
spoke  of  his  brother,  of  Madox  Brown,  and, 
perhaps,  particularly  of  Watts.  He  said  a 
word  or  two  of  myself,  and  then  spoke  with 
emotion  of  his  mother  and  sister,  and  of  his 
sister  who  was  dead,  and  how  they  were  sup- 
ported through  their  sore  trials  by  religious 
hope  and  resignation.  He  asked  if  I,  like 
Shields,  was  a  believer,  and  seemed  alto- 
gether in  a  softer  and  more  spiritual  mood 
than  I  could  remember  to  have  noticed  be- 
fore. 

With  such  talk  we  passed  the  last  of  Ros- 
setti's  Christmas  nights,  and  on  many  a  night 
afterward  I  spent  some  hours  with  him  in  his 

210 


THE   LAST    OF   HOME 

room.  The  drug  being-  gone,  he  was  in  nearly 
every  sense  a  changed  man,  and  I  remem))er 
particularly  that  there  was  no  more  fear  of 
poverty  and  no  painful  brooding  over  death. 
Tliat  any  hope  such  as  could  be  called  faith 
had  taken  the  place  of  dread  I  cannot  posi- 
tively say,  and  perhaps  if  I  had  to  give  in  a 
word  a  definition  of  Rossetti's  attitude  toward 
spiritual  things,  I  should  say  that  it  was  then 
that  of  an  agnostic — ^not  of  an  unbeliever,  but 
of  one  who  simply  did  not  know.  Before  the 
mystery  of  the  hereafter,  of  the  unknown  and 
the  unknowable,  he  seemed  to  stand  silent,  per- 
haps content,  certainly  without  any  anxious 
questioning,  any  agonising  doubts. 

Those  hours  with  Rossetti,  when  he  had  just 
emerged  from  the  thraldom  of  so  many  years, 
are  among  the  most  treasured  of  my  memories, 
and  I  recall  the  impression  I  had  at  the  time 
that  much  of  his  conversation  was  like  the  stem 
lamp  of  a  ship  which  casts  its  light  on  the 
path  that  is  past.  Thus  one  day  he  said :  "  To 
marry  one  woman,  and  then  find  out,  when 
it  is  too  late,  that  you  love  another,  is  the 
deepest  tragedy  that  can  enter  into  a  man's 
life." 

No  more  now  than  before  did  he  interest  him- 
self in  the  affairs  of  the  world  outside  his  own 

211 


MY   STORY 

walls,  and  what  lie  called  "  the  momentary 
momentousness "  of  many  political  questions 
seemed  never  to  stir  his  pulse  for  a  moment; 
but  there  was  one  great  social  problem  which 
always  moved  him  to  the  depths.  He  had  dealt 
with  it  in  both  his  arts — as  a  poet  in  "  Jenny," 
as  a  painter  in  "  Found,"  and  perhaps  in  "  Mary 
Magdalene."  It  was  the  age-long  prol^lem  of 
the  poor  scapegoats  of  society  who  carry  the 
sins  of  men  into  a  wilderness  from  which  there 
is  no  escape.  These  pariahs,  these  outcasts, 
had  a  fascination  for  him  alwavs,  but  it  was 
of  a  kind  that  could  only  be  felt  by  a  man  who 
was  essentially  pure-minded. 

"  That  is  a  world,"  he  used  to  say,  "  that 
few  understand,  though  there  is  hardly  any- 
body who  does  not  think  that  he  knows  some- 
thing about  it." 

On  Rossetti  it  seemed  to  sit  like  a  night- 
mare. For  the  poor  women  themselves,  who 
after  one  false  step  find  themselves  in  a  blind 
alley,  in  which  the  way  back  is  forbidden  to 
them,  he  had  nothing  but  the  greatness  of  his 
compassion.  The  pitiless  cruelty  of  their  posi- 
tion often  affected  him  to  tears.  That  they 
had  transgressed  against  all  the  recognised 
rules  of  morality  and  social  order,  and  were 
often  wallowing  in  an  abyss  of  degradation, 

919 


THE    LAST    OF    HOME 

did  not  rob  them  of  his  pity.  No  human  crea- 
ture was  common  or  miclean.  "  With  our  God 
is  forgiveness,"  and  feeling  this,  Rossetti  also 
seemed  to  feel  that  behind  the  sin  of  these  sin- 
ners there  was  always  the  immensity,  even  the 
majesty  of  their  suffering. 

All  this  he  had  put  into  "  Jenny,"  with  its 
tenderness  to  the  little  closed  soul  of  the  girl, 
and  its  passionate  denunciation  of  the  lust  of 
man ;  he  had  put  it  into  "  Found,"  with  the 
agony  of  shame  in  the  face  of  the  woman  on 
her  knees  and  the  pathos  of  the  net  which  con- 
fined the  calf  that  was  going  to  slaughter  in 
the  country  cart ;  he  had  put  it  into  "  Mary 
Magdalene,"  too,  in  the  light,  as  of  an  awaken- 
ing soul,  in  the  eyes  of  the  courtesan  when  she 
hears  the  Master's  call;  but  more  touching, 
perhaps  more  immediately  affecting  than  any 
of  these  great  works  (in  my  view  the  greatest 
the  world  has  yet  seen  on  this  subject),  was  the 
talk  of  the  man  himself  when,  at  this  most 
spiritual  hour  of  the  period  in  which  I  knew 
him,  he  would  sjDeak  of  what  he  believed  to 
be  one  of  the  poignant  tragedies  of  human 
life. 

I  will  not  shrink  from  telling  of  one  act  of 
Rossetti's  moral  courage  at  that  time,  which 
I  have  never  since  been  able  to  recall  without 
15  213 


MY    STORY 

a  thrill  of  tlie  heart.  Somewhere  I  had  met 
with  one  of  the  women  of  the  imderworld  who 
seemed  to  me  to  have  kept  her  soul  pure  amid 
the  mire  and  slime  that  surrounded  her  poor 
body.  She  was  a  girl  of  great  beauty,  some 
education,  refinement,  knowledge  of  languages, 
and  not  a  little  reading  and  good  taste.  Her 
position  had  been  due  to  conditions  more  tragic 
than  the  ordinary  ones,  but  she  was  held  to  it 
by  the  same  relentless  laws  which  bound  the 
commonest  of  her  class. 

It  was  a  very  pitiful  example  of  the  tragedy 
which  most  deeply  interested  Rossetti,  and 
when  I  told  him  al)out  it  he  was  much  affected. 
But  he  did  not  attempt  or  suggest  the  idea  of 
rescue.  He  knew  the  problem  too  well  to  imag- 
ine that  anything  less  than  complete  reversal 
of  the  social  order  could  help  a  girl  like  that 
to  escape  from  the  blind  alley  in  which  she 
walked  alone.  The  only  thing  that  could  be 
done  for  her  was  to  keep  her  soul  alive  amid 
all  the  dead  souls  about  her,  and  this  he  tried 
to  do. 

Asking  me  to  bring  him  a  copy  of  his 
first  volume  of  poems  (the  volume  containing 
"Jenny"),  he  wrote  the  girl's  name  and  his 
own,  with  a  touching  line  or  two,  on  the  title- 
page,  and  told  me  to  give  her  the  book.    I  did 

214 


THE    LAST    OF    HOME 

so,  and  I  recall  the  astonishment  and  emotion 
of  the  poor  outcast  thing-,  who  appreciated  per- 
fectly what  it  meant  to  the  illustrious  poet  to 
send  that  present  to  a  lost  one  like  her.  As 
far  as  I  can  remember,  I  never  saw  her  again, 
nor  heard  what  became  of  her,  but  well  I  know 
that  wherever  she  is  that  book  is  with  her  still, 
and  the  tender  grace  of  Rossetti's  act  has  not 
been  lost. 

I  have  one  more  memory  of  those  cheerful 
evenings  in  the  poet's  bedroom,  with  its  thick 
curtains,  its  black  oak  chimney-piece  and  cru- 
cifix, and  its  muffled  air  (all  looking  and  feel- 
ing so  much  brighter  than  before),  and  that  is 
of  Buchanan's  retraction  of  all  that  he  had 
said  in  his  bitter  onslaught  of  so  many  years 
before.  One  day  there  came  a  copy  of  the 
romance  called  "  God  and  the  Man,"  with  its 
dedication,  "  To  an  Old  Enemy."  I  do  not 
remember  how  the  book  reached  Rossetti's 
house,  whether  directly  from  the  author  or 
from  the  publisher,  or,  as  I  think  probable, 
through  Watts,  who  was  now  every  day  at 
Cheyne  Walk,  in  his  untiring  devotion  to  his 
friend,  but  I  have  a  clear  memory  of  reading 
to  the  poet  the  beautiful  lines,  in  which  his 
critic  so  generously  and  so  bravely  took  back 
everything  he  had  said : 

215 


MY    STORY 

"I  would  have  snatched  a  bay-leaf  from  thy  brow, 
Wronging  the  chaplet  on  an  honoured  head; 
In  peace  and  charity  I  bring  thee  now 
A  lily-flower  instead. 

''Pure  as  thy  purpose,  blameless  as  thy  song, 
Sweet  as  thy  spirit,  may  this  offering  be; 
Forget  the  bitter  blame  that  did  thee  wrong, 
And  take  the  gift  from  me." 

Rossetti  was,  for  the  moment,  much  affected 
by  the  pathos  of  the  words,  but,  in  the  absence 
of  his  name,  it  was  difhcult  at  first  to  make  him 
believe  they  were  intended  for  him. 

"  But  tliey  are,  I'm  sure  they  are,  and  Watts 
says  they  are,"  I  went  on  repeating,  until  he 
was  compelled  to  believe. 

It  was  a  moving  incident,  and  doubly  affect- 
ing at  that  moment,  when  the  poet  had  just 
emerged  from  the  long  night  of  so  much  suffer- 
ing. And  it  was  fit  and  meet  that  Buchanan's 
retraction  should  come  before  it  was  too  late 
for  Rossetti  to  hear  of  it,  but  if  I  had  wanted 
anything  to  prove  to  me  that  the  cloud  that 
had  hung  over  the  poet's  life  was  not  that 
of  another  poet's  criticism,  but  a  far  graver 
thing,  I  should  have  found  it  in  the  fact  that 
after  the  first  hour  of  hearing  of  the  retrac- 
tion, he  never  spoke  of  the  matter  again. 

I  have  another  memory  of  those  evenings  in 

216 


THE    LAST    OF    HOME 

the  bedroom,  and  it  is  to  me  a  very  touching 
one.  After  some  little  time,  in  which  Rossetti 
seemed  to  regain  strength,  he  got  out  of  bed 
for  a  few  hours  every  day,  and  then  we  real- 
ised that  he  was  not  recovering.  The  partly 
stricken  limbs  had  gained  power  in  some  meas- 
ure, but  his  weakness  was  obvious,  and  it  was 
only  too  clear  to  everybody  that  the  road  for 
Rossetti  was  indeed  all  downhill  now. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  year,  I  remember, 
I  found  this  certainty  especially  oppressive, 
from  the  acute  sense  one  always  has  of  coming 
trouble  as  one  passes  the  solemn  landmarks 
of  time.  I  could  not  stay  indoors  that  night, 
so  I  walked  about  the  streets,  but  I  had  not 
counted  on  the  fact  that  by  staying  out  of  the 
house  to  avoid  painful  emotions,  I  was  only 
gathering  them  up  to  fall  in  a  single  blow  the 
moment  I  came  back. 

It  was  about  half  an  hour  after  midnight 
when  I  returned  home,  and  then,  as  well  as  I 
can  remember,  Rossetti  was  alone.  The  church 
bells  were  still  ringing  their  cheerful  appeal 
as  I  stepped  into  his  room,  and  after  a  feeble 
effort  at  the  customary  "  Hulloa,"  we  wished 
each  other  "  A  Happy  New  Year." 


CHAPTER    X 


AT   BIRCHINGTON 


A  FTER  a  few  weeks  upstairs  Rossetti  was 
/-%    able  to  get  down  to  his  studio,  but  his       j 

strength  did  not  increase,  so  it  was  de- 
cided that  the  error  of  the  autumn  should,  if 
possible,  be  repaired  by  sending  him,  late  as 
it  was,  to  the  seaside.  At  that  moment  a 
friend  of  earlier  days,  Seddon,  the  architect,  of- 
fered the  use  of  a  bungalow  at  Birchington, 
a  few  miles  from  Margate,  and  I  was  asked 
to  go  down  and  look  at  the  place.  I  did  so, 
and,  coming  back,  I  reported  so  favourably  of 
the  house  and  the  situation  that  Rossetti  de- 
termined to  move  immediately. 

There  were  the  same  laborious  preparations 
as  before,  only  they  were  lightened  now  by 
Rossetti's  calmer  spirits,  and  toward  the  end 
of  January  the  poet  left  his  home  for  the  last 
time.  Whether  he  had  any  premonitions  that 
this  was  the  fact  I  cannot  say,  but,  whatever 
the   hopes   of   his   recovery   cherished   by  his 

218 


AT   BIRCHINGTON 

friends,  it  was  clear  enoui^li  to  me  that  the  poet 
hmiself  had  no  illusions.  And,  though  he  gave 
no  outward  sign  of  regret,  I  will  not  doubt  that 
the  day  was  a  sad  one  on  which  he  turned  his 
back  on  the  house  in  which  he  had  known  so 
much  joy  and  sorrow,  the  place  so  full  of  him- 
self, written  all  over  with  the  story  of  his  life, 
the  studio,  the  muffled  bedroom,  the  closed-up 
drawing-room,  the  little  green  dining  room, 
and  the  garden,  now  ploughed  up  and  lost. 

We  travelled  in  ordinary  carriages  now,  tak- 
ing with  us  the  domestic  servants  from  Cheyne 
Walk,  a  professional  nurse,  and  my  sister,  then 
a  little  girl.  Though  so  weak,  Rossetti  was 
in  good  spirits,  and  I  remember  that  on  get- 
ting into  the  compartment  he  tried  to  amuse 
the  child  by  pretending  that  the  carriage  itself 
had  been  built  expressly  in  her  and  his  honour. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  initials 
on  the  carpet  ("London,  Chatham,  and  Dover 
Railway,"  as  it  was  then),  "they  have  even 
written  our  names  on  the  floor — L.  C.  and 
D.  R. — Lily  Caine  and  Dante  Rossetti." 

It  had  been  a  fine  and  cheerful  day  when  I 
went  down  to  Thanet  to  "  report  on  the  land," 
but  it  was  a  dark  and  sullen  one  when  I  arrived 
there  with  Rossetti.  Birchington  was  not  a 
holiday  resort  in  those  days,  though  it  was  be- 

219 


MY    STORY 

ing  laid  out  for  its  career  in  that  eliaracter. 
It  was  merely  an  old-fashioned  Kentish  settle- 
ment on  the  edge  of  a  hungry  coast. 

The  village,  which  stood  back  from  the  shore 
the  better  part  of  a  mile,  consisted  of  a  quaint 
old  Gothic  church,  gray  and  green,  a  winding 
street,  a  few  shops,  and  a  windmill,  while  the 
bungalow  we  were  to  live  in  stood  alone  on  the 
bare  fields  to  the  seaward  side,  and  looked  like 
a  scout  that  had  ventured  far  toward  the  edge 
of  unseen  cliffs.  The  land  aroimd  was  flat  and 
featureless,  unbroken  by  a  tree  or  bush,  and 
one  felt  as  if  the  great  sea  in  front,  rising  up 
to  the  horizon  in  a  vast  round  hill,  dominated 
and  threatened  to  submerge  it.  The  clouds 
were  low,  the  sea  was  loud,  the  weather  was 
chill,  and  if  Rossetti  had  been  able  to  act  on 
his  first  impression  of  Birchington,  I  think  he 
would  have  gone  back  to  London  immediately. 

But  next  dav  the  sun  shone,  the  air  was 
bright,  the  skylarks  were  singing,  and  Rossetti 
was  more  content.  Our  little  house  was  home- 
ly, too,  in  its  simple  way,  a  wooden  building 
of  one  story,  with  a  corridor  going  down  the 
middle,  and  bedrooms  opening  to  front  and 
back.  Rossetti  chose  a  back  bedroom,  that  he 
might  hear  as  little  as  possible  of  the  noise  of 
the  sea. 

220 


AT   BIRCHINGTON 

There  was  a  large  dining  room  at  the  end  of 
the  corridor,  and  there  we  set  up  Rossetti's 
easels,  laid  out  my  usual  truckload  of  books, 
and  otherwise  j^repared  for  a  lengthy  sojourn. 
Somebody  lent  us  a  huge  telescope,  and  we  put 
that  up  also,  though  there  was  little  to  look  at 
along  the  bleak  coast  except  the  bare  headland 
of  Reculvers,  and  nothing  on  the  empty  sea 
except  an  occasional  sailing  ship  going  up  to 
the  Baltic,  for  the  great  steamers  hardly  ever 
came  so  near. 

During  the  first  weeks  of  our  stay  in  Birch- 
ington,  Rossetti  was  able  to  take  short  walks 
with  me  every  morning  (he  rose  earlier  now) 
along  the  tops  of  the  chalk  cliffs  overlooking 
the  rugged  shore,  and  round  the  road  that 
winds  about  the  church  and  churchyard.  It  is 
not  without  a  trembling  of  the  heart  that  I 
now  remember  how  often  we  walked  round  that 
churchyard,  as  long  as  Rossetti  was  able  to 
walk  at  all.  But,  though  he  would  heavily  lean 
on  a  stick  with  one  hand,  and  as  heavily  on  my 
arm  with  the  other,  the  exercise  soon  proved 
to  be  too  much  for  him,  for  he  was  growing 
weaker  day  by  day. 

Nevertheless  his  spirits  kept  up  wonder- 
fully, and  besides  painting  a  little  at  intervals, 
he  took  to  poetical  compositions  afresh,  and 

221 


]\IY   STORY 

wrote  (of  all  things  in  the  world  for  that  mo- 
ment) a  facetious  ballad,  called  "Jan  Van 
Hunks,"  telling  an  eccentric  story  of  a  Dutch- 
man's wager  to  smoke  against  the  devil.  Ros- 
setti  himself  had  never  smoked  in  his  life,  I 
think,  but  his  enjojTnent  of  the  Dutchman's 
agony,  as  he  recited  or  dictated  to  me  in  the 
drawing-room  the  stanzas  he  had  composed  in 
bed,  made  the  place  ring  with  laughter. 

We  had  our  serious  and  even  thrilling  mo- 
ments, too,  in  that  house  on  the  edge  of  the 
coast,  as  when  the  wind  roared  around  the 
little  place  at  night,  and  the  light  of  Reculvers 
was  all  that  we  could  see  through  the  blackness 
of  rolling  rain  clouds,  and  we  knew  that  long 
stretches  of  the  chalk  cliffs  in  front  were 
churning  down  into  the  champing  sea. 

I  remember  that  once  in  the  morning,  after 
a  storm,  when  the  sea  was  calm  and  the  sun 
was  shining,  we  saw  that  a  foreign  ship,  which 
had  come  to  anchor  a  mile  or  so  outside,  had 
taken  fire,  and  we  heard  a  little  later  that 
the  crew,  on  taking  flight  from  her,  had  left  be- 
hind them  the  body  of  a  comrade  who  had  died 
during  the  night.  The  incident  took  hold  of 
Rossetti's  imagination.  All  through  the  day 
he  watched  the  burning  ship,  and  at  night, 
when  hull  and  rigging  were  aflame,  and  noth- 

222 


AT   BIRCHINGTOX 

ing  was  to  be  seen  but  that  blazing  mass  in  a 
circle  of  glittering  light,  the  sense  as  of  a 
funeral  pyre  was  so  strong  on  both  of  us  that 
we  sat  for  hours  in  the  darkness  to  look  at  it. 

Weak  as  he  was  in  body,  his  intellect  was 
as  powerful  as  in  his  best  days,  and  he  was 
just  as  eager  to  occupy  himself  with  my  own 
doings  and  tryings-to-do.  Thus  in  the  even- 
ings he  would  make  me  read  aloud  the  articles 
I  was  writing  for  the  literary  journals,  and  tell 
him  my  first  vague  schemes  for  the  stories  that 
were  on  the  forehead  of  the  time  to  come. 

I  think  he  liked  my  tendency  to  take  the  sim- 
ple incidents  out  of  the  Bible  as  foundations 
for  modern  novels,  not  because  he  had  any 
Puritan  leanings  whatsoever,  but  because  he 
recognised  the  elemental  strength  of  the  primi- 
tive themes.  It  was  then  that  I  was  shaping 
the  tales  that  I  have  since  written  on  the  lines 
of  the  lives  of  Jacob  and  Esau,  of  Samuel  and 
Eli,  and  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  and  it  is  impos- 
sible for  me  to  say  how  much  these  stories  may 
owe  (of  whatever  may  be  good  in  them)  to  the 
sure  criticism  of  his  searching  mind.  One 
thing  I  know  and  may  be  permitted  to  say,  that 
when  I  wrote  that  section  of  one  of  my  novels 
which  describes  a  man  who  is  cut  off  from  his 
kind  and  is  alone  with  his  own  soul,  I  was 

223 


MY    STORY 

drawing  deeply  of  the  well  of  Rossetti's  mind, 
as  it  revealed  itself  to  me. 

He  may  have  been  half-way  to  the  other 
world,  but  he  was  still  not  incapable  of  a  level- 
headed view  of  any  attempt  to  get  there  be- 
fore one's  time,  and  he  made  more  than  a 
single  protest  against  certain  spiritualistic 
tendencies  of  mine,  which  were  born,  perhaps, 
of  the  reading  of  Swedenborg.  I  particularly 
recall  the  vehemence  of  his  objection  to  my 
going  to  a  seance  to  which  one  of  his  own 
earlier  friends  had  invited  me,  and  that  the 
reason  he  gave  was  like  a  speech  out  of  "  Ham- 
let," or  a  passage  from  Sir  Thomas  Browne. 

"  You  must  not  go,"  he  said  decisively. 

"AVhy  not,  Rossetti?  Do  you  think  it's  all 
a  fraud,  and  the  spirits  do  not  appear  ? " 

"  No,  but  they're  evil  spirits — devils — and 
they're  allowed  to  torment  and  deceive  people." 

But  even  during  these  first  weeks  at  Birch- 
ington,  Rossetti  was  not  entirely  dependent 
upon  me  for  society  and  solace.  He  was  vis- 
ited at  intervals  by  nearly  all  the  friends  of 
his  later  years,  as  well  as  by  some  of  lifelong 
standing.  His  spirits  would  rally  perceptibly 
on  the  sight  of  these  friends,  and  then  fall  as 
sensibly  when  they  were  gone,  but  when  I  re- 
member the  lighter  moments  of  these  rather 

224 


AT   BIKCHINGTON 

heavy  days  I  cannot  forget  the  visit  of  one 
other  acquaintance  whom  I  need  not  name. 

This  was  the  person  who  carried  out  the 
work  of  the  exhumation  of  his  poems — the 
companion  of  earlier  days,  more  reckless  and 
tumultuous  days,  perhaps,  as  well  as  days  of 
blank  darkness.  I  had  often  heard  him  spoken 
of  as  a  daring  and  adventurous  creature,  whose 
humorous  audacity  had  overcome  nearly  all 
fear  of  his  unscrupulousness. 

Beginning  life  as  the  secretary,  I  think,  of 
Euskin,  he  had  ultimately  lived  on  his  wits, 
doing  anything  and  everything  for  a  living, 
ingratiating  himself  into  the  graces  and  worm- 
ing himself  into  the  confidence  of  nearly  all  the 
painters  of  Eossetti's  immediate  circle,  and 
making  Eossetti,  in  particular,  his  conscious 
victim. 

One  day  this  soldier  of  fortune  turned  up 
unexpectedly  at  our  bungalow,  and  was  re- 
ceived with  the  utmost  cordiality.  He  was  a 
somewhat  battered  person,  with  the  face  of  a 
whipi^ed  cab  horse,  but  so  clever,  so  humorous, 
so  audacious,  that  Eossetti's  flagging  spirits 
were  wonderfully  awakened  by  his  visit.  I 
think  the  poet  remarked  that  the  last  time  they 
had  met  was  when  his  visitor  had  bought  "  a 
tidy  bit  of  blue  "  (blue  china)  for  him. 

225 


MY   STORY 

"And  what  are  you  doing  now,  Charlie!" 
said  Rossetti. 

"  Buying  horses  for  the  King  of  Portugal," 
said  the  soldier  of  fortune,  and  then  Rossetti 
laughed  until  he  nearly  rolled  out  of  his  seat. 

Our  visitor  stayed  all  day,  telling  stories, 
veracious  and  apocryphal,  of  nearly  everybody 
known  to  us  in  the  world,  and  mentioning  to 
me,  in  a  sort  of  parenthetical  aside,  that  when 
he  was  a  young  man  he  had  written  nearly  all 
Ruskin's  early  books,  which  was  probably  true 
enough,  since  he  had  almost  certainly  copied 
them  from  the  author's  manuscript  in  those 
better  days,  when  his  fingers  had  done  the  work 
which  was  now  being  discharged  by  his  nimbler 
wits. 

Feeble  as  Rossetti  was  at  the  time,  the  visit 
of  this  unaccoimtal)le  being  did  him  good,  and 
he  laughed  all  evening  after  the  man  had  gone, 
talking  of  his  adventures  of  various  kinds,  as 
well  as  telling  his  familiar  stories  over  again. 
One  of  the  latter,  which  particularly  amused 
him,  was  of  a  man  near  to  death,  to  whom  the 
clergyman  came  and  said,  "  Dear  friend,  do  you 
know  who  died  to  save  you!"  "Oh,  Meenis- 
ter,  Meenister,"  said  the  dying  man,  "is  this 
a  time  for  conundrums!" 

All  this,  however,  was  but  the  flickering  of 

226 


AT   BIRCHINGTON 

the  lamp  that  was  slowly  dying  out,  and  it 
was  only  too  obvious  that  Rossetti's  strength 
was  becoming  less  and  less.  His  eyesight  was 
feebler,  and  having  already  given  up  his  at- 
tempts to  paint,  he  had  now  given  up  his 
efforts  to  read.  With  difficulty  he  rose  for  a 
few  hours  every  day,  and  only  with  the  help 
of  the  nurse's  arm  or  mine  was  he  able  to  reach 
the  drawing-room.  Seeing  how  things  stood 
with  him,  I  suggested  that  he  should  let  me 
send  for  his  mother  and  sister,  and  he  con- 
sented, saying: 

"  Then  you  really  think  I  am  dying?    At  last 
you  think  so !  " 


CHAPTER    XI 


"  WHATEVER    THERE    IS    TO    KNOW  " 


ROSSETTI'S  mother  and  sister  came 
without  more  than  a  day  or  two's  delay. 
The  mother,  a  little,  sweet  woman,  with 
a  soft  face  and  a  kind  of  pure  morning  air 
always  about  her,  very  proud  to  be  the  mother 
of  a  son  whose  name  was  ringing  through  the 
world,  very  sad  to  see  him  so  surely  going  be- 
fore her.  The  sister,  Christina,  a  woman  of 
great  intellectuality,  but  without  a  trace  of  the 
pride  of  intellect,  a  famous  poet  herself,  yet 
holding  her  reputation  as  nothing  compared 
with  that  of  her  l)rother,  whose  genius,  she 
plainly  thought,  was  to  carry  on  the  family 
name. 

To  relieve  the  long  hours  of  the  evenings,  I 
borrowed  a  great  batch  of  novels  from  a  lend- 
ing library  at  Margate,  and  Christina  read 
them  aloud  in  the  drawing-room.  She  was  a 
fine  reader,  not  emotional,  perhaps,  and  cer- 
tainly not  humorous,  but  always  vigorous  of 

228 


"WHATEVER  THERE  IS   TO  KNOW" 

voice  and  full  of  intellectual  life.  Rossetti  was 
interested  in  nearly  everything  that  was  read 
to  him,  and  though  some  of  it  was  poor  stuff, 
some  of  it,  like  "  Henry  Dunbar,"  was  good, 
and  a  little  of  it,  like  "  The  Tale  of  Two  Cities," 
was  great.  I  remember  that  he  was  deeply 
touched  by  Sidney  Carton's  sacrifice,  and  said 
he  would  have  liked  to  paint  the  last  scene 
of  it. 

Thus  February  slid  into  March,  and  spring 
began  to  come,  with  its  soft  sunshine  and  the 
skylarks  singing  in  the  morning,  but  Rossetti's 
health  did  not  improve.  The  hours  in  the 
drawing-room  became  shorter  every  day,  and 
we  all  knew  that  the  end  was  drawing  on.  At 
the  request,  I  think,  of  the  London  physician, 
we  called  in  a  local  doctor,  a  country  practi- 
tioner of  more  than  average  intelligence,  who 
knew  nothing,  however,  of  his  patient,  and 
asked  him  some  awkward  and  rather  gawkish 
questions.  I  remember  that  one  morning  I 
met  the  good  man  coming  out  of  the  house  with 
a  look  of  confusion  on  his  face,  and  that  he 
drew  me  aside  and  whispered,  by  way  of  warn- 
ing, his  secret  opinion  of  the  state  of  Rossetti's 
mind. 

"Your  friend  does  not  tvant  to  live,"  he 
said.  "  If  I  were  to  leave  a  glass  of  some- 
16  229 


MY    STORY 

thing  on  the  table  by  his  l^ed,  and  say,  '  Drink 
that,  and  you'll  be  gone  in  five  minutes,'  it 
would  be  done  before  I  could  get  out  of  the 
room." 

I  thought  then  the  doctor  was  wrong,  and 
I  still  think  so.  True  that  by  this  time  the 
longing  for  life  was  gone,  and  gone,  too,  was 
^'  the  muddy  imperfection  "  of  fear  of  death, 
but  I  cannot  believe  that  by  any  act  of  his  own 
he  would  have  hastened  his  end.  He  was  in 
no  pain,  he  had  reconciled  himself  to  the 
thought  that  his  active  life  was  over,  and  he 
was  clearly  biding  his  time. 

The  local  clergyman  came,  too,  at  Chris- 
tina's suggestion,  I  think,  and  Rossetti  saw 
him  quite  submissively.  He  was  a  fairly  capa- 
ble man,  I  remember,  and  when  he  talked  in 
the  customary  way  of  such  good  souls  Ros- 
setti listened  without  resistance,  having  no 
theological  subtleties  to  baffle  him  with;  but 
after  a  while  the  deep,  slow,  weary  eyes  of  the 
poet,  looking  steadfastly  at  him,  seemed  to 
silence  the  clergyman,  and  he  got  up  and  went 
away. 

Rossetti's  attitude  toward  the  other  life 
seemed  to  be  the  same  then  as  his  attitude 
toward  this  life — the  attitude  of  one  who  is 


waitmg. 


230 


"WHATEVEE  THEEE  IS   TO  KNOW" 

Still  we  say  as  we  go — 

"  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 

Whatever  there  is  to  know, 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

One  day,  more  than  usually  cheerful  with 
signs  of  the  coming  spring,  the  local  doctor 
made  the  painful  and  somewhat  belated  dis- 
covery that  Rossetti  was  in  an  advanced  stage 
of  Bright's  disease,  and  we  telegraphed  to  his 
brother,  to  Watts,  and  to  Shields  to  come  down 
immediately.  That  night  his  dear  old  mother 
and  I  remained  with  him  until  early  morning, 
and  then  his  sister  took  our  place  by  his  side. 

Since  the  coming  of  his  mother  and  sister, 
I  had  seen  less  of  Rossetti  than  before,  feeling 
a  certain  delicacy  in  intruding  upon  the  sacred 
intimacies  of  the  home  circle  in  these  last  re- 
unions, but  the  next  morning,  after  he  had 
received  what  we  believed  to  be  his  death  war- 
rant, I  spent  a  long  hour  with  him. 

"  Hulloa !  Sit  dow^n !  I  thought  at  one  time 
you  were  going  to  leave  me,"  he  said,  as  I  went 
into  his  room. 

"  You'll  have  to  leave  me  first,  Rossetti,"  I 
replied. 

"  Ah ! " 

And  then  I  Imew  what  I  had  said. 

I  found  his  utterance  thick  and  his  speech 

231 


MY    STORY 

from  that  cause  hardly  intelligible,  but  in  spite 
of  that  he  talked  long  and  earnestly. 

He  spoke  of  his  love  of  early  English  ballad 
literature,  and  how  he  had  said  to  himself, 
when  he  first  met  with  it,  "  There  lies  your 
line,*'  and  then,  in  a  simple,  natural  way,  but 
with  a  certain  quiet  exultation,  reminding  me 
of  Keats's  calm  confidence,  he  spoke  of  holding 
his  place  among  the  English  poets  after  his 
death.  After  that  he  half  sang,  half  recited 
snatches  from  one  of  lago's  songs  in  "  Othello." 

"  Strange  thing  to  come  into  one's  head  at 
such  a  moment,"  he  said.  I  had  never  seen 
him  more  bright. 

It  was  my  last  interview  with  Rossetti  alone 
of  the  many  I  had  had  of  many  kinds,  and  I 
will  not  shrink  from  telling  the  stoiy  of  the  end 
of  it,  so  deeply  does  it  touch  me  as  often  as 
it  comes  back  to  my  mind.  There  had  been  a 
friend  of  his  earlier  years  whom  we  of  his 
later  life  could  not  but  consider  an  evil  influ- 
ence, and  this  friend  we  finally  expelled.  It 
was  all  done  with  Rossetti's  consent,  but  clearly 
as  he  saw  that  he  had  suffered  from  that 
friendship,  he  never  ceased  to  regret  it,  and 
now,  at  the  last  moment,  after  months  of  si- 
lence, he  said  in  a  whisper: 

"  Have  you  heard  anything  of ?  " 

232 


"WHATEVER  THERE   IS   TO  KNOW" 

"Nothing  at  all." 

"  Would  you  tell  me  if  you  had? " 

"  If  you  asked  me — yes." 

"  My  poor ,"  he  murmured,  and,  unable 

to  say  more,  I  went  out  of  the  room,  feeling 
how  poor  and  small  had  been  our  proud  loy- 
alty compared  with  the  silent  pathos  of  his 
steadfast  friendship. 

Next  day  (it  was  Good  Friday)  the  friends 
we  had  sent  for  arrived — his  brother,  Watts- 
Dunton,  and  Shields.  Weak  as  he  was  he  was 
much  cheered  by  their  company,  but  well  we 
knew  that  he  was  always  aware  that  the  gath- 
ering of  his  friends  about  him  meant  that  the 
wings  of  death  seemed  to  us  to  be  gathering, 
too. 

He  made  his  will  the  day  following,  leaving 
everything  to  his  own,  with  the  provision  that 
three  or  four  of  us  who  had  been  closest  to  him 
during  his  last  years  should  each  choose  some- 
thing out  of  his  house  to  remember  him  by. 
Watts-Dunton  drew  up  the  document,  I  made 
a  fair  copy  of  it,  and  after  Rossetti  had  signed 
it  with  his  trembling  hand,  it  was  witnessed 
by  me  and  by  another.  Only  at  that  moment 
did  the  placid  temper  of  these  last  days  seem 
disturbed.  Money  had  never  been  an  object 
in  Rossetti's  life,  and  these  material  provisions 

233 


MY    STORY 

seemed  to  vex  liim  a  little  now,  as  though  they 
came  too  late,  and  were  dragging  his  spirit 
back. 

In  view  of  the  local  doctor's  alarming  re- 
port, the  London  x)hysician  was  telegraphed 
for,  and  he  arrived  on  Saturday  evening.  His 
visit  gave  great  heart  to  everybody.  While 
recognising  the  serious  condition,  he  was  not 
without  hope.  After  examining  his  patient, 
he  took  us  all  into  another  room  and  explained 
the  position.  It  was  true  that  Rossetti  was 
now  suffering  from  Bright's  disease,  induced, 
perhaps,  by  the  prolonged  use  of  the  perni- 
cious drug;  but  it  did  not  follow  that  he  must 
die  immediately.  With  care  of  diet  and  gen- 
eral watchfulness  over  the  conditions  of  health 
he  must  still  live  long.  People  with  that  ail- 
ment often  lived  five  years,  sometimes  ten 
years,  even  fifteen. 

He  administered  a  kind  of  hot  pack,  and 
when  we  saw  him  off  on  Saturday  night,  we 
were  all  in  great  spirits.  Next  morning  Eos- 
setti  was  perceptibly  better,  and  I  think  every- 
body in  the  house  looked  in  upon  him  in  his 
room  and  found  him  able  to  listen,  and  some- 
times to  talk.  It  was  a  beautiful  Easter  morn- 
ing, and  when  the  bells  rang  a  joyful  Easter 
peal  I  think  both  mother  and  sister  went  to 

234 


"WHATEVER   THERE   IS   TO   IvNOAV" 

church.  All  was  well  during  the  day,  and  in 
the  evening  the  nurse  gave  such  a  cheery  re- 
port of  the  poet's  condition  that  we  were  very 
happy.  She  was  about  to  administer  another 
pack,  so  we  went  off  to  other  rooms,  the  mother 
and  Christina  to  their  bedroom,  facing  Ros- 
setti's,  William  to  the  drawing-room,  Watts- 
Dunton  and  Shields  and  I  to  the  dining  room 
down  the  corridor. 

About  nine  o'clock  Watts-Dunton  left  us  for 
a  short  time,  and  when  he  returned  he  said  he 
had  been  in  Rossetti's  room  and  found  him  at 
ease  and  very  bright.  Then  we  three  gave  way 
to  good  spirits,  and  began  to  laugh  at  little 
things,  as  is  the  way  with  people  when  a  long 
strain  seems  to  be  relaxed.  But  immediately 
afterward  we  heard  a  terrible  cry,  followed 
by  the  sound  of  somebody  scurrying  down  the 
corridor,  and  rapping  loudly  at  every  door. 

It  was  all  over  before  we  seemed  to  draw 
breath.  I  remember  the  look  of  stupefaction 
in  our  faces,  the  sense  of  being  stunned,  as  we 
three — Watts-Dunton,  Shields,  and  I,  leaving 
the  two  good  women  murmuring  their  prayers 
in  the  death  chamber — returned  to  the  dining- 
room  and  said  to  each  other,  "  Gabriel  has 
gone ! " 


CHAPTEE   XII 

"  THAT    SHALL    WE    KNOW    ONE    DAY  " 

WE  found  it  hard  to  realise  that  Ros- 
setti  was  dead,  the  dreadful  fact 
having  fallen  at  last  with  such  fear- 
ful suddenness.  Each  of  us  no  doubt  had  had 
his  vision  of  how  it  was  to  be  with  Rossetti  at 
the  last.  In  mine  he  was  to  die  slowly,  body 
and  mind  sinking  gradually  to  rest,  as  the  lamp 
dies  down,  or  as  the  boat,  coming  out  of  a 
tempestuous  sea,  lets  drop  its  sail  and  glides 
into  harbour.  This  was  to  be  Nature's  recom- 
pense for  Rossetti's  troubled  days  and  sleep- 
less nights,  for  his  fierce  joys  and  stormy 
sorrows.  But  Nature  knew  better  the  mys- 
teries of  the  future,  and  Rossetti  was  to  be 
the  same  tragic  figure  to  the  end,  in  sunshine 
and  shadow,  in  life  and  death,  always  tragic. 

The  little  household  was  still  staggering 
under  its  sudden  blow,  when  William  Rossetti's 
wife  arrived  unexpectedly,  and  then,  in  the  re- 
gathering  of  the  company,  all  our  hearts  went 

236  . 


"THAT    SHALL   WE   KNOW   ONE   DAY" 

out  to  the  old  mother.  The  tides  of  memory 
must  have  been  flowing  back  upon  her  as  upon 
nobody  else — back  from  the  days  of  Rosset- 
ti's  childhood,  of  his  father's  house  and  his 
father's  death,  to  the  hour  when  he,  too,  was 
dead,  and  she  was  left  in  the  world  without 
him.  It  was  impossible  to  attempt  to  console 
the  sweet  old  lady  without  feeling  that  we  were 
holding  out  our  hands  to  her  in  the  dark. 

Next  morning  I  plucked  some  of  the  big  pan- 
sies  and  wild  violets  that  come  earlv  in  the 
spring  in  that  fresh  sea  air,  and  loving  hands 
laid  them  on  the  poet's  breast.  His  face,  as 
he  lay  dead,  was  perfectly  placid,  the  con- 
vulsive expression  gone,  and  even  the  tired 
look  that  had  clung  to  him  in  sleep  as  the  leg- 
acy of  the  troubled  years  quite  smoothed  away. 
Shields  spent  the  morning  in  making  a  pen- 
cil sketch  of  him,  finding  it  a  painful  task,  and 
weeping  most  of  the  time.  Later  in  the  day 
a  plaster  cast  was  taken  of  his  head  and  his 
small,  delicate  hand. 

The  London  newspapers  were  full  of  obitu- 
ary articles,  and  the  drowsy  little  seaside  set- 
tlement appeared  to  awake  to  some  vague 
consciousness  of  who  it  was  that  had  been  liv- 
ing in  their  midst.  Nevertheless,  I  recall  the 
look  of  blank  bewilderment  in  the  face  of  the 

237 


MY    STORY 

local  clerg-yman  who,  having  come  in  all  gra- 
cious neighborliness  to  ask  where  the  family 
wished  Rossetti  to  be  buried,  meaning  in  what 
portion  of  the  churchyard,  received  William 
Rossetti's  reply  in  words  like  these : 

"  If  my  brother  had  his  due,  he  would  be 
buried  in  Westminster  Abbey." 

I  wondered  why  it  seemed  to  occur  to  no- 
body that  Rossetti  should  be  buried  at  High- 
gate  with  his  wife,  around  whose  life  (and 
death)  his  own  life  had  so  plainly  revolved, 
))ut  William  decided  to  bury  his  brother  at 
Birchington,  and  no  doubt  William  knew  best. 

I  went  up  to  London  on  some  necessary  busi- 
ness between  the  death  and  the  burial,  and  the 
gaunt  old  house  at  Chelsea,  which  had  always 
seemed  a  desolate  place  to  me,  for  all  the 
wealth  of  beautiful  things,  felt  more  than  ever 
so  now  that  the  man  who  had  been  the  soul  of 
it  lay  dead  in  the  little  bungalow  by  the  sea. 
I  remember  the  emotion  with  which  I  stepped 
noiselessly  into  the  studio,  where  there  was  no 
longer  the  cheery  voice  to  greet  me,  and  the 
sense  of  chill  with  which  I  passed  the  dark 
bedroom,  now  empty,  on  my  way  to  bed. 

I  took  back  from  London  the  feeling  that  by 
the  death  of  Rossetti  the  world  had  become 
aware  of  the  loss  of  a  man  of  twofold  genius, 

238 


"THAT   SHALL   WE   KNOW   ONE   DAY" 

but  that  its  imagination  had  heen  most  moved 
by  learning  of  the  two  or  three  tragic  facts  in 
his  storm-beaten  life. 

The  funeral  was  a  private  one,  and  a  few  of 
llossetti's  friends  came  down  to  it.  They  were 
chiefly  the  friends  of  his  later  life,  hardly  any 
of  the  friends  of  earlier  days  being  there.  We 
heard  that  Burne-Jones  had  made  effort  to 
come,  and  had  got  as  far  as  the  railway  sta- 
tion, where  he  became  ill  and  turned  back. 
Madox  Brown  was  unwell  in  Manchester,  and 
Euskin  was  now  an  old  man  in  Coniston,  and 
as  for  the  rest,  perhaps  the  time  and  place  of 
the  funeral  had  not  been  communicated  to 
them,  or  perhaps  they  thought  the  gradual 
asundering  of  the  years  had  left  them  no  right 
to  be  there. 

It  was  a  dumb  sort  of  day,  without  wind,  and 
the  sky  lying  low  on  the  sea.  When  I  got  into 
the  last  of  the  carriages  there  were  some  drops 
of  rain,  but  they  stopped  before  we  reached 
the  church.  We  were  only  a  little  company 
who  stood  about  the  grave,  and  all  I  can  re- 
member about  that  group  is  the  figure  of  the 
blind  poet,  Marston,  with  tears  in  his  sight- 
less eyes.  The  grave  was  close  to  the  church 
porch,  and  only  a  few  yards  away  was  the 
winding  .path   where   Kossetti   and   I   had   so 

239 


:\n^  STORY 

often  walked  around  the  place  which  was  now 
to  be  the  place  of  his  rest. 

The  friends  left  us  that  night,  and  after  a 
day  or  two  more  the  family  went  away.  I  was 
ill  in  bed  bv  this  time,  and  from  some  other 
cause  Watts-Dunton  also  remained  a  little 
longer,  I  thought  we  two  had  been  drawn 
closer  to  each  other  by  a  common  affection  and 
the  loss  of  him  by  whom  we  had  been  brought 
together. 

AVlien  I  was  better,  and  the  time  had  come 
for  us  to  go  away,  too,  we  walked  one  morn- 
ing to  the  churchyard  and  found  Gabriel's 
grave  strewn  with  flowers.  It  was  a  quiet 
spring  day,  the  birds  were  singing  and  the  yel- 
low flowers  were  beginning  to  show.  As  we 
stood  by  the  grave  under  the  shadow  of  the 
quaint  old  church,  with  the  broad  sweep  of 
landscape  in  front,  so  flat  and  featureless  that 
the  great  sea  appeared  to  lie  on  it,  and  with 
the  sleepy  rumble  of  the  rolling  waters  borne 
to  us  from  the  shore,  we  could  not  but  feel  that, 
little  as  we  had  thought  to  leave  Rossetti  there, 
no  other  place  could  be  quite  so  fit. 

It  was,  indeed,  the  resting  place  for  a  poet. 
In  that  bed,  of  all  others,  he  must,  at  length, 
after  weary  years  of  sleeplessness,  sleep  the 
only  sleep  that  was  deep  and  would  endure. 

240 


PART   THREE 


CHAPTER    I 


I   BECOME    A    JOURNALIST 


THE  part  that  chance  plays  in  human  life 
needs  no  illustration  from  my  personal 
experience,  but  when  I  remember  how 
unimportant  and  how  remote  was  the  incident 
which  led  to  my  short  career  as  a  journalist, 
and  thus  to  the  calling  which  I  have  followed 
during  the  past  five-and-twenty  years,  I  can- 
not wonder  that  the  blind  force  we  call  circum- 
stance, whether  working  for  good  or  for  bad, 
is  often  known  by  a  more  religious  name. 

Among  the  few  members  of  the  devoted 
circle  which  had  surrounded  Rossetti  was 
William  Bell  Scott,  a  poet  and  painter,  who 
had  never  achieved  the  fame  which  I  thought 
was  his  due.  To  right  this  wrong,  it  occurred 
to  me  one  day,  while  we  were  at  Birchington, 
to  publish  an  article  in  his  honour,  and,  for 
reasons  I  cannot  recall,  I  sent  it,  uninvited,  to 
the  Liverpool  Mercury.  The  article  was  pub- 
lished in  due  course,  and  it  led  to  two  very 

243 


MY    STORY 

contrary  results,  the  first  being  that  I  lost  for- 
ever the  friendship  of  Scott,  who  became  for 
the  remainder  of  his  life  my  bitter  enemy;  and 
the  second,  that  I  received  a  letter  from  John 
Lovell,  the  then  editor  of  the  Mercury,  saj^ng, 
as  far  as  I  can  remember,  "  I  have  for  some 
time  thought  of  asking  you  to  join  our  staff 
as  an  outside  contributor,  and  I  should  be  glad 
to  know  how  vou  would  like  some  such  ar- 
rangement  as  that  we  should  pay  you,  say  £100 
a  year,  and  that  you  should  write  for  us  as 
much  or  as  little  as  you  please." 

It  was  certainly  an  extraordinary  proposal ; 
but  I  think  in  the  sequel  it  proved  both  the  gen- 
erosity and  the  practical  wisdom  of  the  man 
who  made  it.  After  the  first  six  months  of  our 
informal  relation,  I  received  a  second  letter 
from  the  editor,  saying : 

"  The  proprietors  of  the  Mercury  had  not 
anticipated  that  you  would  do  so  much  work, 
and  therefore  they  desire  to  increase  the  hon- 
orarium to  £150." 

Rather  later,  a  letter  of  similar  purport 
came  to  me,  and  I  need  not  further  deal  with 
this  side  of  my  connection  with  the  paper  than 
to  say  that,  on  its  financial  side,  it  speedily 
became  everything  that  a  young  journalist 
could  expect. 

244 


I   BECOME    A   JOURNALIST 

Shortly  after  Rossetti's  death,  I  took  two 
rooms  (I  called  them  "chambers")  in  the  old, 
now  demolished  Clement's  Inn,  and  there  de- 
voted myself  to  my  work  as  a  journalist,  which 
consisted  chiefly  of  my  work  on  the  Mercury. 
If  it  were  necessary  to  dwell  on  my  domestic 
life,  I  could,  perhaps,  tell  curious  stories  of 
my  days  in  chambers,  for,  with  my  income  of 
a  hundred  a  year,  I  had  to  be  my  own  cook 
and  housemaid,  making  my  own  bed  and  break- 
fast, as  well  as  my  own  politician  and  prophet, 
regulating  for  the  people  of  Liverpool  some 
of  the  affairs  of  state,  and  discussing  for  the 
world  in  general  the  laws  of  the  universe;  but 
it  may  be  enough  to  say  that  I  was  rather  poor 
and  very  lonely,  having  few  friends  in  London, 
hardly  any  houses  to  call  at,  and  little  to  live 
for  except  my  family,  who  were  far  away,  and 
mv  work,  which  was  alwavs  with  me.  But 
these  were,  perhaps,  not  the  worst  conditions 
for  a  young  provincial  journalist,  who,  with  a 
fixed  income,  however  small,  was  allowed  the 
liberty  of  a  free  lance.  I  was  to  do  whatever 
I  liked,  and  I  did  many  things  in  those  lonely 
days  which  helped  me,  I  think,  in  later  years, 
to  some  knowledge  of  life  and  to  a  genuine 
love  of  humanity. 

This  was  the  period  when  newspapers  in 
17  245 


MY    STORY 

London  were  for  the  first  time  becoming  aware 
that  there  was  "news"  in  a  new  book;  and 
I  did  my  best  to  put  the  Mercury  on  an  equal- 
ity with  the  London  dailies,  by  giving  a  review 
of  an  important  work  on  the  day  of  its  pub- 
lication, and  that  led,  by  one  means  after 
another,  to  certain  literary  friendships,  which 
have  become  interesting  and  valuable  to  me  all 
my  life.  Thus  at  the  table  of  my  distinguished 
friend  Watts-Dunton  I  frequently  met  Mr. 
Swinburne;  under  the  wing  of  Lord  Houghton 
I  met  Lord  Coleridge,  and  at  the  house  of 
Coleridge  I  met  Matthew  Arnold  and  Robert 
Browning. 

I  think  these  associations  helped  to  stimu- 
late my  ambition  and  to  elevate  my  ideals,  if 
not  to  promote  my  material  welfare ;  and  what- 
ever the  advantage  I  derived  from  them,  I  owe 
it,  in  part  or  altogether,  to  my  early  connec- 
tion with  journalism.  For  the  rest,  I  can 
scarcely  say  if  the  reading  and  reviewing  of 
so  manv  modern  books  was  good  or  bad  for  me 
as  a  n6velist;  and  I  sometimes  remember  with 
a  flush  and  a  shudder  that  with  even  more  than 
the  usual  daring  born  of  youth  and  inexperi- 
ence, I  played  in  my  turn  the  extraordinary 
part  of  law-giver  and  judge  in  literature  while 
I  was  still  a  learner  and  tyro.    But  this  topsy- 

24:6 


I   BECOME    A   JOURNALIST 

turveydom  is  apparently  a  necessary  condi- 
tion of  nearly  all  literary  criticism. 

The  roving  commission  which  Lovell  had 
given  me  took  me  to  the  theatre  on  first  nights, 
and  I  suppose  I  telegraphed  to  Liverpool  a 
hundred  notices  of  new  plays  produced  in  Lon- 
don. In  this  relation  I  recaJl  two  incidents, 
equally  pleasing  and  equally  fruitful,  the  first 
being  a  letter  addressed  to  my  editor  by  Ed- 
ward Russell  (the  best,  I  think,  of  all  living 
dramatic  critics),  saying  enthusiastic  things 
of  the  Mercury  dramatic  articles ;  and  the  sec- 
ond being  a  letter  from  Wilson  Barrett,  pro- 
testing against  one  of  them,  and  desiring  me 
to  call  upon  him  and  explain.  The  precise 
ground  of  Barrett's  objection  I  cannot  now  re- 
member, but  I  recall  the  closing  passages  of  his 
frank  attack,  which  was  something  like  this: 
"  And  now  that  I've  told  you  what  I  think  of 
your  article,  I  wish  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of 
yourself.  I  think  you  could  write  a  play,  and 
if  some  day  you  should  hit  on  a  subject  suit- 
able for  me,  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  let  me 
hear  of  it." 

The  theatre  was  not  the  only  scene  in  which, 
under  the  wing  of  the  Mercury,  I  studied 
drama.  My  editor  discovered  that  at  the 
moment  of  the  unexpected  death  of  a  celebrity 

247 


MY    STORY 

he  was  sometimes  hard  pressed  for  an  ade- 
quate obituary  notice,  and  therefore  he  re- 
solved to  have  a  good  body  of  such  articles 
prepared  and  pigeon-holed  in  advance  of  the 
times  when  they  would  be  required.  In  this 
work  of  preparation  my  services  were  engaged, 
and  I  wrote  numberless  obituary  notices  of 
people  still  living,  including  nearly  all  the  lit- 
erary friends  with  whom  I  used  to  dine  and 
smoke. 

I  called  these  my  post-mortem  examinations, 
and,  making  no  secret  of  them,  I  sometimes 
engaged  the  co-operation  of  my  subjects  them- 
selves in  preparing  the  substance  of  what  was 
to  be  said  about  them  after  their  deaths.  Dur- 
ing the  twenty  to  thirty  odd  years  which  have 
interv^ened,  the  greater  part  of  my  post-mor- 
tem examinations  have  been  published;  and  I 
trust  the  readers  of  the  Mercury  have  at  least 
not  been  wounded  by  such  ill-timed  censure  of 
people  newly  dead  as  too  often,  nowadays,  un- 
der the  feeble  pretence  of  impartiality  and  of 
holding  the  scales  of  justice,  disfigures,  and,  I 
think,  disgraces  the  columns  of  some  leading 
papers  in  London. 

My  post-mortem  labours  led  me  to  the  British 
Museum,  for  the  collecting  of  my  material;  and 
there,  during  some  six  or  nine  months,  I  stud- 

248 


I   BECOME    A   JOURNALIST 

ied,  by  the  way,  one  of  the  most  curious  and 
pathetic  aspects  of  London  life.  The  reading- 
room  of  the  great  library  was  in  those  days 
an  extraordinary  scene  to  one  who  had  eyes 
to  see  and  ears  to  hear.  Its  regular  fre- 
quenters were  a  strange  conglomeration  of 
people  of  all  nationalities,  all  interests,  and 
nearly  all  classes;  but  the  dominant  class  was 
the  dreaming  class,  the  Don  Quixotes  of  the 
human  family,  creating  a  world  of  their  own 
— a  world  of  vision  which  was  tragically  out 
of  harmony  with  the  world  of  reality  in  which 
thev  lived. 

The  man  in  the  shabby  coat  and  greasy  hat, 
who  had  been  working  for  ten  years  on  the 
treatise  that  was  to  make  him  immortal;  the 
exile  from  Germany  or  Italy,  who  had  spent 
half  a  lifetime  in  liberating  his  country,  and 
lived,  meantime,  in  a  bare  back  room  in  Soho ;  the 
fanatics,  the  cranks,  the  visionaries — all  these 
were  there,  and  I  came  to  know  many  of  them, 
and  to  feel  a  compassion  for  their  mental  and 
material  condition  that  was  sometimes  in- 
tensely painful.  I  have  often  wondered  that 
nobody  has  used  for  the  purposes  of  a  novel  a 
scene  of  life  so  full  of  varied  and  pathetic  in- 
terest as  the  reading-room  of  the  British 
Museum. 

249 


MY    STORY 

But,  outside  my  literary  and  dramatic  exer- 
cises, there  was  one  wide  sphere  of  literary 
activity  in  which  I  loved  to  live.  My  lonely  life 
in  London  left  me  to  find  my  few  amusements 
for  myself,  and  I  found  them  principally  in  the 
streets.  I  was  living  in  the  heart  of  the  great 
city,  and,  though  the  gardens  of  the  old  Clem- 
ent's Inn  gave  me  an  almost  cloisteral  quiet 
in  mv  rooms,  I  was  on  the  edge  of  one  of  the 
poorest  quarters  in  London,  the  now  denuded 
Clare  Market,  wherein  Richard  Savage  and 
Samuel  Johnson  walked  through  the  long 
nights  of  their  jjoverty,  when,  homeless  and 
without  food,  they  resolved,  in  their  patriotic 
ardour,  that,  come  what  would,  they  "  could 
never  desert  their  country." 

Genius  might  not  make  its  home  there  in  my 
days,  but  humanity  did  so ;  and  I  found  a  world 
that  was  valua1)le  to  study  in  the  poor  people 
who  lived  in  the  wretched  rookeries  (or  say 
ratteries)  which  the  County  Council  have  since 
pulled  down.  The  "  Old  Frenchman,"  with  his 
Jovian  bare  head,  who  sold  evening  papers  in 
the  Strand;  the  old  hatter  and  the  old  second- 
hand bookseller  in  Clement's  Passage;  the  poor 
chorus  girls  from  the  neighbouring  theatres, 
who  were  treated  w^orse  than  dogs  by  creatures 
worse  than  men;  the  poor  little  Italian  organ 

250 


I   BECOME    A   JOURNALIST 

boys,  who  were  bought  and  sold  like  slaves; 
and  then  the  frequenters  of  the  bogus  clu])s, 
of  the  dancing  academies,  of  the  gambling 
hells — all  these  were  my  neighbours,  a  few  of 
them  were  my  friends,  and  most  of  them  found 
their  way  in  some  sort  of  disguise  into  the 
columns  of  my  paper. 

It  was  not  a  bad  apprenticeship  for  a  novel- 
ist to  live  amid  associates  and  scenes  like 
these;  but  I  think  I  can  say  with  truth  that 
what  I  prize  most,  as  the  result  of  the  experi- 
ence of  those  days,  is  the  tenderness  it  left  for 
the  poor  and  the  oppressed,  especially  the  op- 
pressed among  women  and  girls,  whose  suifer- 
ing  utters  a  cry  which  even  yet  threatens  to 
drown  for  me  all  the  other  sounds  of  life. 

When  I  was  in  Iceland  four  years  ago,  I  was 
interested  to  hear  from  a  young  poet  that  Par- 
liament had  granted  him  a  stipend  to  travel 
abroad  and  develop  his  talent.  Something  like 
that  was  what  the  Mercury  did  for  me  when 
it  gave  me  for  several  years  at  least  a  living 
wage  on  condition  that  I  reported  myself  every 
day.  It  afforded  me  a  magnificent  apprentice- 
ship to  the  profession  of  novelist,  and  it  is  my 
own  fault  if  adequate  results  have  not  ensued. 
It  sent  me  to  the  University  of  Life,  the  Uni- 
versity of  the  London  streets,  the  London  po- 

251 


MY    STORY 

lice  courts,  the  London  drinking,  dancing,  and 
gaming  halls  and  general  underground  resorts ; 
and  I  should  have  had  to  be  a  poor  apprentice, 
indeed,  to  come  through  its  curriculum  with- 
out some  knowledge  of  the  world. 

I  am  now  fifty-five  years  of  age,  and  have 
had  thirty  years'  experience  of  the  literary  life, 
and  if  a  beginner  were  to  ask  me  what  school 
I  consider  best  for  the  novelist,  I  should  an- 
swer, without  hesitation,  the  school  of  jour- 
nalism. 

The  imaginative  writer  needs  invention  and 
sympathy,  and  these  are  the  gifts  of  Nature; 
but,  whatever  the  deftness  of  the  workman's 
hand,  he  cannot  "  make  bricks  without  straw," 
and  the  life  of  one  man  is  hardly  ever  so  full 
of  incident  as  to  find  material  for  many  books. 
But  the  school  of  iournalism  is  constantly 
crowding  the  brain  of  the  student  with  the  in- 
cidents of  countless  lives;  and,  speaking  for 
myself,  I  know  that  in  those  hours  of  mingled 
agony  and  deliglit,  in  which  the  scheme  of  a 
novel  is  being  composed,  there  come  swarming 
in  upon  me  at  every  turn  of  the  plot  the  recol- 
lections of  my  days  as  a  journalist — recollec- 
tions of  this  face,  or  of  that  voice,  of  the 
pathetic  figure  of  the  blind  mother  who  had 
never  seen  her  babe,  or  of  the  wistful  eyes  of 

252 


I    BECOME    A   JOURNALIST 

the  condemned  man  when  he  looked  at  me  as 
he  momited  the  scaffold.  But  journalism,  to 
be  the  best  school  for  the  novelist,  must  be  the 
journalism  of  the  police  court,  the  divorce 
court,  the  hospital,  and  the  jail,  where  human 
nature  is  real  and  stark,  if  vulgar  and  low — ■ 
not  the  journalism  of  "  society,"  where  human- 
ity is  trying-  its  poor  best  to  wear  a  mask. 


CHAPTER   II 

JOHN    RUSKIN 

I  HAVE  spoken  of  the  friends  whom  my 
earliest  efforts  at  authorship  had  won  for 
me,  and  one  of  the  first  of  these  was  Bus- 
kin. My  friendship  with  Ruskin  was  not  in- 
timate, but  it  was  of  long  standing,  and  it 
revealed  to  me  his  mind  and  character  at  im- 
portant periods  of  his  life.  The  first  point  of 
touch  I  had  with  him  was  when  he  was  found- 
ing his  Guild  of  St.  George,  and  writing  in 
vehement  denunciation  of  the  spirit  of  the  age. 
It  was  then  the  fashion  for  writers  in  news- 
papers to  deride  his  view  of  political  economy 
as  something  too  puerile  for  serious  treatment, 
and  perhaps  it  was  the  sincerity  and  enthusi- 
asm of  the  championship  in  the  salad  days  of 
my  journalism,  though  I  was  hardly  more  than 
a  schoolboy,  and  my  organ  was  a  little  weekly 
in  the  Isle  of  Man,  which  engaged  his  interest 
and  sympathy.  I  remember  his  tenderness, 
his    appreciativeness,    his    gratitude    for    the 

254 


JOHN    RUSKIN 

feeblest  help,  the  ardour  of  his  own  intellectual 
passion,  and  his  i)Ower  of  firing  enthusiasm. 
The  years  which  have  intervened  have  seen  the 
triumph  of  many  of  his  theories,  once  so  flip- 
pantly derided,  and  it  pleased  him  well  that  I 
should  say  so  when  I  visited  at  Coniston  a  little 
while  before  his  death. 

My  next  point  of  touch  with  Ruskin  was 
throug-h  Rossetti.  It  was  not  usual  for  the 
members  of  Rossetti's  circle  to  speak  of  Rus- 
kin with  enthusiasm.  His  social  aims  they  did 
not  sympathise  with  or  even  care  about,  and 
they  were  often  impatient  of  his  artistic  criti- 
cism. There  were  exceptions  to  the  rule  of 
this  unfavourable  attitude,  and  I  cannot  recall 
any  hostility  on  the  part  of  Rossetti  himself. 
Indeed,  Rossetti's  personal  liking  for  Ruskin 
seems  strange  to  me  now  when  I  remember 
how  little  their  characters  had  in  common,  and 
among  the  many  stories  of  the  one  told  to  me 
by  the  other,  I  recall  a  tale  which  illustrates 
this  liking  and  this  difference  clearly. 

During  the  earlier  years  of  their  friendship 
Ruskin  had  a  secretary  who  was  a  never-end- 
ing source  of  amusement  to  Rossetti,  and  of 
embarrassment  and  vexation  to  Ruskin  him- 
self. This  was  the  soldier  of  fortune  who  vis- 
ited Rossetti  in  the  last  days  of  his  life  at 

255 


MY    STOEY 

Birchington,  and  he  was  the  most  impudent 
rogue  it  was  possible  to  imagine.  He  had  the 
marks  of  the  humorous  rascal  written  all  over 
his  face,  and  I  remember  that  he  informed  me 
that  he  had  written  most  of  Ruskin's  earlier 
works.  One  day  he  told  Ruskin  that  a  certain 
friend  of  theirs,  a  painter,  was  in  despair  for 
the  want  of  a  large  sum — I  think  a  thousand 
pounds.  Ruskin  promptly  sat  down  and  wrote 
a  check  for  the  amount,  and  gave  it  to  his 
secretary. 

Time  passed,  Ruskin  heard  nothing  more  of 
the  money,  almost  forgot  all  about  it,  and  he 
and  his  secretary  parted.  But,  calling  one  day 
on  his  friend,  he  found  him  tramping  the  studio 
in  a  state  of  semi-delirium. 

"What's  amiss?"  said  Ruskin. 

"Why,  that  scoundrel  and  thief,  ,  has 

been  getting  money  in  my  name,  saying  I  sent 
him  to  borrow  it." 

Ruskin  dropped  his  head,  but  said  nothing. 
The  painter's  suspicions  were  aroused. 

"Has  he  ever  borrowed  from  you?" 

"  Perhaps — I'm  not  sure — I  forget,"  said 
Ruskin,  looking  embarrassed  and  ashamed. 

This  was  Rossetti's  story,  as  nearly  as  I  can 
remember  it,  but  what  is  freshest  in  my  mem- 
ory is  the  roar  of  Rossetti's  laughter  at  the 

256 


JOHN    RUSKIN 

audacity  of  the  rascal's  theft.  That  was  the 
Italian  in  Rossetti,  and,  like  a  true  son  of  Italy, 
he  continued,  as  I  have  shown,  to  tolerate  the 
man  down  to  the  last  days  of  his  life,  knowing 
his  character,  but  enjoying  his  humour.  Years 
afterward  I  mentioned  the  humorous  dog  in 
Ruskin's  presence,  and,  though  nothing  partic- 
ular was  said,  I  could  not  mistake  the  mean- 
ing of  the  heightened  colour  which  crossed  the 
author's  face.  Ruskin's  outlook  on  life  was 
purely  ethical. 

During  the  last  year  but  one  before  Ruskin's 
death,  I  had  the  pleasure  to  meet  him  at  his 
house  at  Coniston.  Although  I  had  known 
more  than  a  little  of  him  for  so  long,  and  had 
enjoyed  so  many  points  of  touch  with  him,  it 
was  the  first  time  I  had  met  him  face  to  face. 
He  had  then  been  for  years  silent,  and,  so  far 
as  active  interest  in  the  affairs  of  life  goes,  he 
had  long  been  dead.  I  found  him  very  old  and 
bont  and  feeble,  a  smaller,  frailer  man  than  I 
looked  for;  well  in  health  both  of  body  and 
mind,  but  with  faculties  that  were  dying  down 
very  slowly  and  gently  and  almost  impercep- 
tibly, as  the  lamp  dies  down  when  the  oil  fails 
in  it. 

His  head  was  not  so  large  as  I  expected  to 
find  it,  or  it  hardly  seemed  to  me  in  form  or 

257 


MY    STORY 

size  either  grand  or  massive;  his  eyes  were 
slow  and  peaceful,  having  lost  their  former 
fire;  and  his  face,  from  which  the  quiet  life  of 
later  years  had  smoothed  away  the  lines  of 
strong  thought  and  torturing  experience,  was 
too  much  hidden  by  a  full  gray  beard.  He 
spoke  very  little,  and  always  in  a  soft  and  gen- 
tle voice,  that  might  have  been  the  voice  of  a 
woman,  but  he  listened  to  everybody,  and 
smiled  frequently.  All  the  fiery  heat  of  earlier 
days  was  gone,  all  the  nervous  force  of  the 
fever  patient,  all  the  capacity  for  noble  anger 
and  religious  wrath.  Nothing  was  left  but  gen- 
tleness, sweetness,  and  quiet  courtesy,  the  un- 
ruffled peace  of  a  breathless  evening  that  is 
sliding  into  a  silent  night.  In  short,  his  whole 
personality  left  the  impression  of  the  ap- 
proach of  death,  but  of  death  so  slow,  so 
gradual,  so  tender,  and  so  beautiful  that  it  al- 
most made  one  in  love  with  it  to  see  it  robbed 
of  every  terror. 

I  think  he  was  glad  to  see  me,  for  the  sake 
of  what  I  could  tell  him  of  certain  friends  of 
his  early  manhood,  from  whom  the  world  had 
long  divided  him,  and  perhaps  because,  as  he 
said,  I  reseml)led  one  of  them  as  he  had  known 
him  thirty  years  before.  So  he  sat  up  until 
nearly  eleven  o'clock  on  the  two  nights  of  my 

258 


JOHN    RUSKIN 

visit,  and  in  default  of  his  own  talking,  which 
I  should  dearly  have  loved  to  listen  to,  if 
the  days  had  not  gone  by  for  that  eloquent 
tongue  to  speak  clearly,  I  talked  of  some 
of  the  men  and  things  he  loved  to  hear 
about. 

I  found  that  his  strongest  remaining  inter- 
est was  not  in  art,  but  in  social  problems,  and 
it  pleased  him  better  to  know  that  his  social 
teaching  was  finding  followers  than  that  his  art 
views  were  being  discussed.  It  amused  him, 
also,  that  I  could  tell  something  about  some 
earlier  occupants  of  his  beautiful  home,  when 
it  was  a  kind  of  head  centre  for  the  production 
of  the  literature  of  political  revolt,  with  which 
Mazzini  and  others  ran  the  blockade  of  the  cen- 
sorship of  Italy.  Probably  he  knew  more  of 
this  than  I  did,  although  my  story  came  from 
the  printer  of  the  revolutionary  pamphlets,  but 
perhaps  he  was  less  familiar  with  the  incidents 
of  a  sort  of  Jane  Eyre  story,  whereof  a  well- 
known  authoress  was  the  leading  actor,  and 
Brantwood  the  central  scene. 

It  was  winter  time,  and  Coniston  Old  Man 
was  heavily  capped  with  snow,  yet  once  a  day 
Ruskin  took  a  walk  in  the  road,  going  slowly 
with  a  stick,  and  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  man- 
servant.    Behind  his  house  there  is  a  rocky 

259 


MY    STORY 

hillside,  with  winding  steps  to  the  summit, 
and  in  former  days  he  climbed  the  path  con- 
stantly, but  that  was  an  impossible  exercise 
now.  Aj^parently  he  passed  most  of  his  time 
in  a  little  parlour  overlooking  the  lake,  taking 
his  meals  there  instead  of  with  the  family,  and 
only  coming  into  the  drawing-room  after  din- 
ner. The  little  sitting  room  contained  some 
priceless  treasures,  chief  among  them  being 
bound  copies  of  certain  of  Scott's  manuscripts, 
and  mention  of  these  documents  reminds  me 
that  some  of  Ruskin's  stronger  political  an- 
tii)athies  remained  with  him  almost  to  the 
last. 

It  chanced  that  during  my  short  visit  to 
Brantwood  I  received  two  letters  which  I  val- 
ued highly.  One  was  from  Lord  Rosebery, 
containing  a  request  that  I  should  offer  his  re- 
spectful greetings  to  Ruskin,  and  this  pleased 
Ruskin  exceedingly.  The  other  was  from  Mr. 
Gladstone,  sent  on  from  another  address.  With 
Mrs.  Severn,  Ruskin's  cousin,  I  was  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  the  latest  of  Scott's  manu- 
scripts, when  it  struck  me  that  the  handwriting 
of  the  novelist  toward  the  end  of  his  life  bore 
an  extraordinary  resemblance  to  Mr.  Glad- 
stone's handwriting,  as  I  had  just  received  it. 

To  show  the  similarity,  I  took  out  Mr.  Glad- 

260 


c 
p 

"z 


JOHN    RUSKIN 

stone's  letter  and  placed  it  on  Scott's  page,  and 
certainly  the  likeness  seemed  to  me,  and  I 
think  to  everybody  else  in  the  room  except 
Ruskin,  to  be  so  close  as  to  be  almost  startling. 
But  Ruskin  would  not  have  it  to  be  so.  Almost 
without  looking  at  the  two  specimens,  he  said 
repeatedly,  "  No,  no,  no !  "  and  the  heat  of  his 
tone  and  the  flush  in  his  face  convinced  me  that 
his  political  and  personal  feelings  were  still 
powerfully  in  play.  Apart  from  this  incident, 
I  saw  nothing  in  Ruskin  that  made  me  feel  that 
his  life  had  left  any  strong  or  painful  impres- 
sion whatever  on  that  spirit,  now  so  gentle  and 
at  peace  with  all  the  world. 

Ruskin's  bedroom  was,  I  think,  the  room 
above  his  sitting  room,  a  small  chamber  of 
perhaps  twelve  feet  by  ten,  covered  from 
ceiling  to  floor  with  water-colour  pictures  by 
Turner,  making  the  air  warm  with  the  glow  and 
splendour  of  their  colour.  The  windows  of  the 
little  room  looked  out  on  a  far  different  scene 
from  the  scenes  pictured  within,  the  white  top 
and  bare  sides  of  Old  Man,  the  half-frozen 
lake,  and  the  great  mists  of  the  moorland  float- 
ing between.  And  standing  there  in  the  midst 
of  those  priceless  treasures,  with  the  fiery  soul 
beside  me,  now  tempered  with  age  and  softened 
by  the  joys  of  home  and  the  love  of  devoted 
18  261 


MY    STORY 

kindred,  it  was  difficult  to  recall  without  emo- 
tion his  glorious  passage  which  begins,  "  Morn- 
ing dawns  as  I  write,"  or  to  think  without  tears 
of  the  day  that  was  then  so  near  when  he  who 
loved  it  so  would  look  on  the  scene  no  more. 


CHAPTER   III 


EGBERT    BUCHANAN 


ABOUT  two  months  after  Rossetti's  death 
I  was  at  work  in  my  chambers  in  Clem- 
ent's Inn  on  one  of  my  articles  for  the 
Mercury,  when  somebody  knocked  with  his 
knuckles  on  the  door,  and,  in  answer  to  my  call, 
came  in.  It  was  Robert  Buchanan,  whom  I  had 
never  seen  before,  a  thick-set  man,  of  medium 
height,  with  a  broad,  fresh-coloured  face,  dis- 
tinctly intellectual,  but  certainly  not  ascetic  or 
spiritual  or  inspired.  He  had  seen  something 
I  had  written  about  Rossetti,  with  a  reference 
to  himself,  and  he  had  come  to  thank  me  and 
to  reproach  me  at  the  same  time.  In  a  voice 
that  had  a  percei^tible  tremor,  he  said : 

"  Did  you  want  to  heap  coals  of  fire  on  my 
head?  Good  God,  man,  what  did  you  think  you 
were  doing  ? " 

I  was  deeply  touched  by  this  strange  mani- 
festation of  his  gratitude,  giving  proof  enough 
^that  under  that  rather  rugged  exterior  a  real 

263 


MY   STORY 

human  heart  was  quivering.  We  became  friends 
immediately,  and  if  I  had  any  momentary 
sense  of  disloyalty  to  my  dead  comrade  in  join- 
ing hands  with  one  whose  enmity  had  helped 
to  darken  the  last  years  of  his  life,  I  persuaded 
myself,  not  without  reason,  that,  after  all,  Ros- 
setti  and  Buchanan  had  a  good  deal  in  common, 
and  but  for  the  devilish  tangle  of  fate,  they 
might  even  have  been  friends. 

At  that  first  meeting  we  talked  of  Rossetti 
only,  and  I  well  remember  Buchanan's  long 
silence,  the  quivering  of  his  eyelids,  and  the 
moistening  of  his  eyes,  when  I  told  him  how  the 
poet,  whom  he  had  wronged  so  deeply,  had 
praised  his  "  Lights  o'  Leith."  A  few  days  af- 
terward he  wrote  a  long  letter,  which  was  in- 
tended to  explain  the  motive  which  had  led  him 
to  make  his  unjust  attack : 

"  In  perfect  frankness,  let  me  say  a  few 
words  concerning  our  old  quarrel.  While  ad- 
mitting freely  that  my  article  in  the  Contempo- 
rary Review  was  unjust  to  Rossetti's  claims  as 
a  poet,  I  have  ever  held,  and  still  hold,  that  it 
contained  nothing  to  warrant  the  manner  in 
which  it  was  received  by  the  poet  and  his  circle. 
At  the  time  it  was  written  the  newspapers  were 
full  of  panegyric;  mine  was  a  mere  drop  of  gall 
in  an  ocean  of  eau  sucree.    That  it  could  have 

264 


ROBERT    BUCHANAN 

had  on  any  man  the  effect  you  describe,  I  can 
scarcely  believe;  indeed,  I  think  that  no  living 
man  had  so  little  to  complain  of  as  Rossetti, 
on  the  score  of  criticism.  Well,  my  protest  was 
received  in  a  way  which  turned  irritation  into 
wrath,  wrath  into  violence;  and  then  ensued 
the  paper  war  which  lasted  for  years.  If  you 
compare  what  I  have  written  of  Rossetti  with 
what  his  admirers  have  written  of  myself,  I 
think  you  will  admit  that  there  has  been  some 
cause  for  me  to  complain,  to  shun  society,  to 
feel  bitter  against  the  world;  but,  happily,  I 
have  a  thick  epidermis  and  the  courage  of  an 
approving  conscience. 

"  I  was  unjust,  as  I  have  said ;  most  unjust 
when  I  impugned  the  purity  and  misconceived 
the  passion  of  writings  too  hurriedly  read  and 
reviewed  cur  rente  calamo;  but  I  was  at  least 
honest  and  fearless,  and  wrote  with  no  per- 
sonal malignity.  Save  for  the  action  of  the 
literary  defence,  if  I  may  so  term  it,  my  article 
would  have  been  as  ephemeral  as  the  mood 
which  induced  its  composition.  I  make  full  ad- 
mission of  Rossetti's  claims  to  the  purest  kind 
of  literarj^  renown,  and  if  I  were  to  criticise 
his  poems  noiv,  I  should  write  very  differently. 
But  nothing  will  shake  my  conviction  that  the 
cruelty,  the  unfairness,  the  pusillanimity  has 

265 


MY    STORY 

been  on  the  other  side,  not  on  mine.  The 
amende  of  my  dedication  in  '  God  and  the 
Man '  was  a  sacred  thing — between  his  spirit 
and  mine;  not  between  my  character  and  the 
cowards  who  have  attacked  it.  I  thought  he 
would  understand — which  would  have  been, 
and  indeed  is,  sufficient.  I  cried,  and  cry,  no 
truce  with  the  horde  of  slanderers  who  hid 
themselves  within  his  shadow.  That  is  all. 
But  when  all  is  said  there  still  remains  the  pity 
that  our  quarrel  should  ever  have  been.  Our 
little  lives  are  too  short  for  such  animosities. 
Your  friend  is  at  peace  with  God — that  God 
who  will  justify  and  cherish  him,  who  has  dried 
his  tears,  and  who  will  turn  the  shadow  of  his 
life-dream  into  full  sunshine.  My  only  regret 
now  is  that  we  did  not  meet — that  I  did  not 
take  him  by  the  hand;  but  I  am  old-fashioned 
enough  to  believe  that  this  world  is  only  a  pre- 
lude, and  that  our  meeting  may  take  place — 
even  yet." 

During  the  next  two  years  I  saw  a  great  deal 
of  Buchanan.  We  were  constantly  together, 
and  I  think  we  became  sincerely  attached  to 
each  other.  It  was  impossible  not  to  admire 
his  compelling  power,  his  immense  vigour,  his 
courage,  and  even  his  audacity.  There  was  a 
sense  in  which  he  was  the  true  literary  man, 

26G 


ROBERT   BUCHANAN 

the  born  "  slinger  of  ink."  His  control  over 
his  vehicle  was  such  as  I  have  never  seen 
equalled,  and  what  he  could  do  he  could  do 
without  an  effort.  As  a  journalist  he  was  worth 
a  wilderness  of  the  men  who  were  always  de- 
preciating him  in  the  newspapers.  He  would 
write  an  article  while  they  were  nibbling  a  pen 
and  gazing  vacantly  at  a  sheet  of  paper,  hav- 
ing a  quick  sense  of  what  the  public  wants,  the 
art  of  swift  assimilation,  and  a  never-failing 
power  of  vigorous  expression. 

He  knew  life,  too,  and  though  he  knew  books, 
and  knew  them  well,  he  had  not  spent  all  his 
days  within  the  four  walls  of  a  library.  In 
his  youth  he  had  gone  through  bitter  priva- 
tions, tramping  the  streets  with  David  Gray, 
and  lodging  in  a  top  room  in  the  "  New  Cut," 
where  a  tender-hearted  Cockney  servant  girl 
would  smuggle  up  a  dish  of  half  cold  potatoes 
from  the  kitchen  in  pity  of  the  hunger  of  the 
struggling  boys  from  Scotland. 

There  was  a  heart  in  him,  too,  and  when  he 
permitted  himself  to  speak  out  of  it  the  world 
had  no  choice  but  to  hear,  so  that  the  time  had 
been  when,  in  recognition  of  the  power,  the 
pathos,  the  humour,  and  the  undoubted  literary 
form  of  his  earlier  poems,  he  was  recognised 
as  the  heir-apparent  to  Tennyson. 

267 


MY    STORY 

That  time  was  long  passed  when  I  came  to 
know  him,  but  he  was  still  the  lusty,  brawny, 
stalwart  fellow  who  had  more  than  once  flut- 
tered the  literary  dove-cots.  His  hostility  to 
the  profession  of  letters  was  beginning  to  run 
to  seed.  He  had  an  honest  contempt  for  the 
mutual  admiration  of  the  little  cliques  who 
were  then  so  busy  tinkering  up  fictitious  repu- 
tations, and  his  big,  robustious  body  would  rock 
with  derisive  laughter  at  the  little  kinking 
humour  of  what  he  thought  the  Oxford  manner 
— the  manner  of  the  Don  turned  journalist. 

Already  he  was  rapidly  becoming  the  Ish- 
mael  of  literature,  with  his  hand  against  every 
man,  and  every  man's  hand  against  him.  He 
would  make  no  terms  with  his  literary  con- 
temporaries to  win  their  confidence  or  disturb 
their  distrust.  No  clubs,  no  public  dinners,  no 
literary  gatherings  ever  knew  him,  and  when 
he  saw  himself  left  out  of  lists  of  men  of  let- 
ters which  included  battalions  of  weaklings, 
who  were  not  fit  to  wipe  his  boots,  he  growled 
out  his  disgust  and  spat  at  literature. 

But  the  spirit  of  literature  keeps  a  swift  re- 
venge for  the  literary  men  who  lower  her  flag, 
just  as  she  loves  the  best,  if  she  works  the 
hardest,  those  who  hold  her  standard  high. 
Buchanan  as  a  force  in  literature  began  to  dis- 

268 


ROBERT    BUCHANAN 

appear.  The  man  who  had  written  the  "  Bal- 
lad of  Judas  Iscariot "  declined  on  inconspicu- 
ous melodrama,  and  wasted  himself  on  casual 
journalism.  Setting  the  intelligence  of  the  pub- 
lic low,  he  deliberately  gave  them  what  he 
thought  they  wanted,  judging  of  that  by  the 
quality  of  what  he  saw  succeed.  The  high  con- 
scientiousness of  early  years,  whereby  he  had 
seen  that  less  than  his  best  was  less  than  was 
due  from  any  artist  to  the  public,  had  gone 
down  in  the  general  debacle  of  his  literary 
character. 

Then  came  a  more  tragical  development.  In 
his  last  years  life  went  hard  with  him.  He 
had  been  an  affectionate  son,  husband,  and 
friend,  and  his  dear  ones  were  beginning  to 
suffer.  At  that  his  rebellious  spirit  seemed  to 
break  all  bounds,  and  even  his  faith  began  to 
fail.  He  seemed  to  me  sometimes  like  a  man 
at  war  with  the  Almighty.  It  was  only  the 
struggle  of  a  big  soul,  badly  beaten  in  the  fight 
of  life,  to  reconcile  itself  to  the  ways  of  God 
with  men,  but  the  Ishmael  in  Buchanan  lying 
out  in  the  desert  and  crying  for  a  drink  of 
water  became  a  trying  thing  to  see. 

In  those  last  years  he  railed  at  the  world  and 
nearly  everything  in  it,  but  he  kept  a  warm 
place  in  his  heart  for  a  few  (his  devoted  sister- 

269 


MY   STORY 

in-law  above  everybody),  and  I  have  never 
heard  that  he  wrote  a  word  against  me.  Very 
early  in  our  friendship  he  asked  me  to  collab- 
orate with  him,  and  I  attempted  to  do  so,  but 
there  was  nothinii:  to  correct  my  faults  in 
Buchanan's  undoubted  qualities,  and  our  lit- 
erary partnership  died  almost  before  it  was 
born. 

After  a  few  years  we  parted  company,  not 
from  any  quarrel,  but  by  that  gradual  asun- 
dering  that  makes  a  wider  breach  than  open 
rupture.  I  never  ceased  to  think  of  him  with 
affection,  or  to  regret  what  I  saw  of  the  decay 
of  his  noble  gifts,  the  lowering  of  his  natural 
quality,  and  when  he  celebrated  his  sixtieth 
year  I  wrote  to  wish  him  many  happy  returns 
of  the  day,  and  to  lament  the  space  by  which 
life  and  the  world  had  divided  us. 
•  His  reply  was  painful  reading.  He  was  ill, 
he  had  lost  his  mother,  the  world  had  forgotten 
his  existence,  and  but  for  one  "angel  in  the 
house,"  heaven  alone  knew  what  would  have 
become  of  him.  It  was  a  pretty  thing  to  wish 
a  man  many  happy  returns  of  a  day  that  had 
dawned  on  misery  that  was  more  than  he  could 
bear.  Only  one  good  thing  had  emerged  from 
his  sufferings — he  had  put  away  forever  all 
my  own  pitiful   superstitions   about   a  benefi- 

270 


ROBERT    BUCHANAN 

cent  Providence,  who  ruled  the  world  in  right- 
eousness ! 

I  was  hurt,  but  not  hopeless.  Down  to  the 
last  Ishmael  was  crying  in  the  desert,  but  he 
was  not  unheard  there,  and  when  the  end  came 
everything  was  well. 


CHAPTER   IV 


I    BECOME    A    NOVELIST 


WHEN  I  came  up  to  London  to  become 
Rossetti's  housemate,  I  brought  with 
me  the  MS.  of  a  collection  of  lectures 
which  I  had  written  while  living  in  Liverpool. 
Shortly  after  the  poet's  death,  when  ways  and 
means  had  begun  to  present  serious  problems, 
somebody  recommended  that  I  should  submit 
this  MS.  to  a  certain  great  publishing  house, 
and  I  took  it  in  person.  At  the  door  of  the 
office  I  was  told  to  write  my  own  name,  and  the 
name  of  the  person  I  wished  to  see,  and  to 
state  my  business.  I  did  so,  and  the  boy  who 
took  my  message  brought  back  word  that  I 
might  leave  my  manuscript  for  consideration. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  somebody  might  have  seen 
me  for  a  minute,  but  I  had  expected  too  much. 
The  manuscript  was  carefully  tied  up  in  brown 
paper,  and  so  I  left  it. 

After  waiting  three  torturing  weeks  for  the 
decision  of  the  publishers,  I  made  bold  to  call 

272 


I    BECOME    A    NOVELIST 

again.  At  the  same  little  box  at  the  door  of 
the  office  I  had  once  more  to  fill  up  the  same 
little  document.  The  boy  took  it  in,  and  I  was 
left  to  sit  on  his  table,  to  look  at  the  desk  which 
he  had  been  whittling  away  with  his  penknife, 
to  wait,  and  to  tremble.  After  a  while  I  heard 
a  footstep  returning.  I  thought  it  might  ))e 
the  publisher  or  the  editor  of  the  house.  It 
was  the  boy  back  again.  He  had  a  pile  of  loose 
sheets  of  white  paper  in  his  hands.  They  were 
the  sheets  of  my  book. 

"  The  editor's  compliments,  sir,  and — thank 
you,"  said  the  boy,  and  my  manuscript  went 
sprawling  over  the  table.  I  gathered  it  up, 
tucked  it  as  deep  as  possible  into  the  darkness, 
under  the  wings  of  my  Inverness  cape,  and  went 
downstairs,  ashamed,  humiliated,  crushed,  and 
broken-spirited.  Not  quite  that,  either,  for  I 
remember  that  as  I  got  to  the  fresh  air  at  the 
door,  my  gorge  rose  within  me,  and  I  cried  in 
my  heart,  "  By  God,  you  shall — "  and  some- 
thing proud  and  vain. 

I  dare  say  it  was  right  and  proper  and  in 
good  order.  The  book  was  afterward  pub- 
lished, and  I  think  it  sold  well.  I  hardly  know 
whether  I  ought  to  say  that  the  editor  should 
have  shown  me  more  courtesy.  It  was  all  a 
part  of  the  anarchy  of  things  which  Mr.  Hardy 

273 


MY    STORY 

considers  the  rule  of  life.  But  the  sequel  is 
worth  telling.  That  editor  became  my  personal 
friend.  He  is  dead,  and  he  was  a  good  and 
able  man.  Of  course  he  remembered  nothing 
of  this  incident,  and  I  never  poisoned  one  hour 
of  our  intercourse  by  telling  him  how,  when  I 
was  young,  and  a  word  of  cheer  would  have 
buoyed  me  up,  he  made  me  drink  the  waters  of 
Marah. 

And  three  times  since  that  day  the  publish- 
ing firm  I  speak  of  has  come  to  me  with  the 
request  that  I  should  write  a  book  for  them. 
I  have  never  been  able  to  do  so,  but  I  have 
outgrown  my  bitterness,  and,  of  course,  I  show 
no  malice.  Indeed,  I  have  now  the  best  reasons 
for  wishing  the  great  enterprise  well.  But  if 
literary  confessions  are  worth  anj^thing,  this 
one  may  perhaps  be  a  seed  that  will  somewhere 
find  grateful  soil.  Keep  a  good  heart,  even  if 
you  have  to  knock  in  vain  on  many  doors  and 
kick  about  the  back  stairs  of  the  house  of  let- 
ters.   There  is  room  enough  inside. 

Such  was  my  first  attempt  to  become  an 
author,  but  after  years  had  passed,  during 
which  I  had  been  occupied  in  daily  journalism, 
I  found  myself  settled  in  a  little  bungalow  of 
three  rooms  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  there  at 
length  I  began  to  write  my  first  novel.    By  this 

274 


I   BECOME    A   NOVELIST 

time  I  had  persuaded  myself  (perhaps  wrong- 
ly) that  nobody  would  go  on  writing  about 
other  people's  writing  who  could  do  original 
writing  himself,  and  I  resolved  to  live  on  little, 
to  earn  nothing,  and  never  to  go  back  to  Lon- 
don until  I  had  written  something  of  some  sort. 
As  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  I  had  enough 
money  in  my  purse  to  keej)  things  going  for 
four  months,  and  if,  at  the  end  of  that  time, 
nothing  had  got  itself  done,  I  must  go  back 
bankrupt.  Something  did  get  itself  done,  but 
at  a  heavy  price  of  labour  and  heart-burning. 

When  I  began  to  think  of  a  theme,  I  found 
four  or  five  subjects  clamouring  for  acceptance. 
There  was  the  story  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  which 
afterward  became  "  The  Deemster  " ;  the  story 
of  Jacob  and  Esau,  which  in  the  same  way 
turned  into  "  The  Bondman " ;  the  story  of 
Samuel  and  Eli,  which  after  a  fashion  moulded 
itself  finally  into  "  The  Scapegoat,"  as  well  as 
half  a  dozen  other  stories,  chiefly  Biblical, 
which  have  since  been  written,  or  are  still  on 
the  forehead  of  the  time  to  come. 

But  my  first  favourite  at  that  moment  was  a 
Cumberland  legend,  which  I  had  recited  to  Ros- 
setti  during  the  time  we  spent  together  in  the 
Vale  of  St.  John.  It  was  one  of  the  oldest 
legends  of  the  Lake  mountains,  and  it  told  of 

275 


MY    STORY 

the  time  of  the  Plague.  The  people  were  afraid 
to  go  to  market,  afraid  to  go  to  church,  and 
afraid  to  meet  on  the  highway.  In  these 
days  a  widow  with  two  sons  lived  in  one  of 
the  darkest  of  the  Cumberland  valleys;  the 
younger  son  died,  and  his  body  had  to  be  car- 
ried over  the  mountains  to  be  ])uried.  Its 
course  lay  across  Sty  Head  Pass,  a  bleak  and 
"  brant "  space  where  the  winds  are  often  high. 
The  elder  son,  a  strong-hearted  lad,  undertook 
the  duty.  He  strapped  the  coflfin  onto  the  back 
of  a  yoimg  horse,  and  the  funeral  party  started 
away.  The  day  was  wild,  and  on  the  top  of 
the  pass,  where  the  path  dips  into  Wastdale, 
between  the  breast  of  Great  Gable  and  the 
heights  of  Scawfell,  the  wind  rose  to  a  gale. 
The  horse  was  terrified.  It  broke  away  and 
galloped  over  the  fells,  carrying  its  burden 
with  it.  The  lad  followed  and  searched  for  it, 
but  in  vain,  and  he  had  to  go  home  at  last, 
unsatisfied. 

This  was  in  the  spring,  and  nearly  all  the 
summer  through  the  surviving  son  of  the 
widow  was  out  on  the  mountain  trying  to  re- 
cover the  runaway  horse.  Only  once  did  he 
catch  sight  of  it,  though  sometimes,  as  he 
turned  homeward  at  night,  he  thought  he  heard 
in  the  gathering  darkness,  above  the  sough  of 

276 


I   BECOME   A   NOVELIST 

the  wind,  the  horse's  neigh.  Then  winter  came, 
and  the  mother  died.  Once  more  the  dead  body 
was  to  be  carried  over  the  fells  for  burial,  and 
once  again  the  coflfin  was  strapped  on  the  back 
of  a  horse.  It  was  an  old  mare  that  was  chosen 
this  time,  the  mother  of  the  young  one  that  had 
been  lost. 

The  snow  lay  deep  on  the  pass,  and  from  the 
cliffs  of  the  Scawfell  pikes  it  hung  in  a  great 
toppling  mass.  All  went  well  with  the  little 
funeral  party  until  they  came  to  the  top  of  the 
pass,  and  though  the  day  was  calm  the  son  held 
the  rein  with  a  hand  that  was  like  a  vise.  But 
just  as  •  the  mare  reached  the  spot  where  the 
wind  had  frightened  the  yoimg  horse,  there  was 
a  terrible  noise ;  an  immense  body  of  snow  had 
parted  at  that  instant  from  the  beetling  heights 
overhead  and  rushed  down  into  the  valley  with 
the  movement  as  of  a  mighty  earthquake  and 
the  deafening  noise  as  of  a  peal  of  thunder. 
The  dale  echoed  and  re-echoed  from  side  to  side 
and  from  height  to  height.  The  old  mare  was 
affrighted.  She  reared,  leaped,  flung  her  mas- 
ter away,  and  galloped  off.  When  the  funeral 
party  had  recovered  from  their  consternation 
they  gave  chase,  and  at  length,  down  in  a  hol- 
low place,  they  saw  what  they  were  in  search 
of.  It  was  a  horse  with  something  strapped  to 
19  277 


MY    STORY 

its  back,  but  when  they  came  up  with  it,  they 
found  it  was  the  young  horse  with  the  coffin  of 
the  younger  son.  They  led  it  away,  and  buried 
the  body  it  had  carried  so  long.  But  the  old 
mare  they  never  recovered,  and  the  body  of  the 
mother  never  found  sepulchre. 

Such  was  the  legend  sufficiently  terrible  and 
even  ghastly,  which  was  my  favourite  theme 
when  I  began  to  think  of  my  first  novel.  Ros- 
setti  had  been  impressed  by  it,  but  he  had 
strongly  advised  me  not  to  tackle  it.  "  It  is 
strong,"  he  said,  "  but  it  lacks  sjTupathy,  and 
without  sympathy  no  novel  can  live." 

His  judgment  had  disheartened  me,  but  now 
I  thought  I  saw  a  way  to  meet  his  objection. 
The  sympathy  so  necessary  to  the  story  was 
to  be  got  out  of  the  elder  son.  He  was  to  think 
God's  hand  was  upon  him;  but  whom  God's 
hand  rested  on  had  God  at  his  right  hand;  so 
the  elder  son  was  to  be  a  splendid  fellow — 
brave,  strong,  calm,  patient,  long-suffering — a 
victim  of  unrequited  love,  a  man  standing 
square  on  his  legs  against  all  weathers. 

About  this  central  figure  and  legendary  in- 
cident I  first  grouped  a  family  of  characters. 
They  were  heroic  and  eccentric,  good  and  bad, 
but  they  all  operated  upon  my  hero.  Then  I 
began  to  write. 

278 


I    BECOME    A    NOVELIST 

Shall  I  ever  forget  the  agony  of  the  first 
efforts?  There  was  the  ground  to  clear  with 
necessary  explanations.  This  I  did  in  the  way 
of  Scott,  in  a  long  prefatory  chapter.  Having 
written  the  chapter,  I  read  it  aloud,  and  found 
it  unutterably  slow  and  dead.  Twenty  pages 
were  gone,  and  the  interest  was  not  touched. 
Throwing  the  chapter  aside,  I  began  with  an 
ale-house  scene,  intending  to  work  back  to  the 
history  in  a  piece  of  retrospective  writing. 
The  ale  house  was  better,  but  to  try  its  quality 
I  read  it  aloud,  after  the  Rainbow  scene  in 
"  Silas  Marner,"  and  then  cast  it  aside  in 
despair.  A  third  time  I  began,  and  when  the 
ale  house  looked  tolerable  the  retrospective 
chapter  that  followed  it  seemed  flat  and  poor. 
How  to  begin  by  gripping  the  interest,  how  to 
tell  all  and  yet  never  stop  the  action — these 
were  agonising  difficulties. 

It  took  me  nearly  a  fortnight  to  start  that 
novel,  sweating  drops  of  blood  at  every  fresh 
attempt.  I  must  have  written  the  first  half 
volume  four  times  at  the  least.  After  that  I 
saw  the  way  clearer,  and  got  on  faster.  At  the 
end  of  three  months  I  had  written  nearly  two 
volumes  (it  was  in  the  days  of  the  three-volume 
novel),  and  then,  in  good  spirits,  I  went  up  to 
London, 

279 


MY   STORY 

My  first  visit  was  to  J.  S.  Cotton,  a  close 
friend  (at  that  time  editor  of  The  Academy), 
and  to  him  I  detailed  the  lines  of  my  story. 
His  rapid  mind  saw  a  new  opportunity.  "  You 
want  peine  forte  et  dure,^''  he  said.  "  What's 
that?"  I  said.  "An  old  punishment — a  beau- 
tiful thing,"  he  answered.  "  Where's  my  dear 
old  Blackstone  ? "  and  the  statute  concerning 
the  punishment  for  standing  mute  was  read  to 
me.  It  was  just  the  thing  I  wanted  for  my 
hero,  and  I  was  in  rapture,  but  I  was  also  in 
despair.  To  work  this  fresh  interest  into  my 
theme,  half  of  what  I  had  written  would  need 
to  be  destroyed! 

It  was  destroyed,  the  interesting  piece  of 
ancient  jurisprudence  took  a  leading  place  in 
my  scheme,  and  after  two  months  more  I  got 
well  into  the  third  volume.  Then  I  took  my 
work  down  to  Liverjjool,  and  showed  it  to  my 
friend,  John  Lovell.  After  he  had  read  it, 
he  said: 

"  I  suppose  you  want  my  candid  opinion?  " 

"  Well,  ye— s,"  I  said. 

"  It's  crude,"  he  said.  "  But  it  only  wants 
subediting." 

Subediting ! 

I  took  it  back  to  London,  began  again  at  the 
first  line,  and  wrote  every  page  over  again. 

280 


I   BECOME   A   NOVELIST 

At  the  end  of  another  month  the  story  had 
been  reconstructed,  and  was  shorter  by  some 
fifty  pages  of  manuscript.  It  had  drawn  my 
heart's  blood  to  cut  out  my  "  best "  passages, 
but  they  were  gone,  and  I  knew  the  l)ook  was 
better.  After  that  I  went  on  to  the  end  and 
finished  with  a  tragedy.  Then  the  story  was 
sent  back  to  Lovell,  and  I  waited  for  his  verdict. 

My  home  (or  what  served  for  it)  was  now 
on  the  fourth  floor  of  New  Court,  in  Lin- 
coln's Inn,  and  one  morning  Lovell  came  puff- 
ing and  blowing  and  steaming  (the  good  fellow 
was  a  twenty-stone  man)  into  my  lofty  nest. 
He  had  reread  my  novel  coming  up  in  the  train. 

"  Well  ?  "  I  asked  nervously. 

"  It's  splendid,"  he  said. 

That  was  all  the  favourable  criticism  he  of- 
fered.   All  save  one  practical  and  tangible  bit. 

"  We'll  give  you  £100  for  the  serial  right  of 
the  story  for  the  Weekly." 

He  offered  one  unfavourable  criticism. 

"  The  death  of  your  hero  will  never  do,"  he 
said.  "  If  you  kill  that  man,  you'll  kill  your 
book.  What's  the  good?  Take  no  more  than 
the  public  will  give  you  to  begin  with,  and  by 
and  by  they'll  take. what  you  give  them" 

It  was  practical  advice,  but  it  went  sorely 
against  the  grain.     The  death  of  the  hero  was 

281 


MY    STORY 

the  natural  sequel  to  the  story;  the  only  end 
that  gave  meaning  and  intention  and  logic  to 
its  motif.  I  had  a  strong  predisposition  toward 
a  tragic  climax  to  a  serious  story. 

To  close  a  narrative  of  disastrous  events 
with  a  happy  ending,  it  always  seemed  neces- 
sary to  turn  every  incident  into  accident.  That 
was  like  laughing  at  the  reader.  Comedy  was 
comedy,  but  comedy  and  tragedy  together  was 
farce.  Then  a  solemn  close  was  so  much  more 
impressive.  A  happy  ending  nearly  always 
frayed  off  into  rags  and  nothingness,  but  a 
sad  one  closed  and  clasped  a  story  as  with  a 
clasp.  Besides,  a  tragic  end  might  be  a  glori- 
ous and  satisfying  one,  and  need  by  no  means 
be  squalid  and  miserable.  But  all  these  argu- 
ments went  down  before  my  friend's  practical 
assurance,  "  Kill  that  man,  and  you  kill  your 
book." 

With  much  diffidence  I  altered  the  catas- 
trophe and  made  my  hero  happy.  Then,  think- 
ing my  work  complete,  I  asked  Watts-Dunton 
(the  friend  to  whose  wise  coimsel  I  owed  so 
much  in  those  days)  to  read  some  "galley" 
slips  of  it.  He  thought  the  rustic  scenes  good, 
but  advised  me  to  moderate  the  dialect,  and  he 
propounded  to  me  his  well-known  views  on  the 
use  of  patois  in  fiction. 

282 


I   BECOME    A   NOVELIST 

"  It  gives  a  sense  of  reality,"  he  said,  "  and 
also  has  the  effect  of  wit,  but  it  must  not  stand 
in  the  way." 

The  advice  was  sound.  A  man  may  know 
over  much  of  his  subject  to  write  on  it  prop- 
erly. I  had  studied  Cumbrian  to  too  much  j^ur- 
pose,  and  did  not  realise  that  some  of  my 
scenes  were  like  sealed  books  to  the  general 
reader.  So  once  again  I  ran  over  my  story,  tak- 
ing out  some  of  the  "  nobbuts  "  and  the  "  dus- 
tas  "  and  the  "  wiltas." 

My  first  novel  was  now  written,  but  I  had 
still  to  get  it  published.  In  my  early  days  in 
London,  while  trying  to  live  in  the  outer  court 
of  the  calling  wherein  the  struggle  for  existence 
is  keenest  and  bitterest  and  cruellest,  I  con- 
ceived one  day  the  idea  of  offering  myself  as 
a  reader  to  the  publishers.  With  this  view  I 
called  on  several  of  them,  who  have  perhaps 
no  recollection  of  my  early  application.  I  re- 
call my  interview  with  one  of  them.  He  was 
sitting  at  a  table  when  I  was  taken  into  his 
room,  and  he  never  once  raised  his  head  from 
his  papers  to  look  at  me.  I  just  remember  that 
he  had  a  neck  like  a  three-decker  and  a  voice 
like  a  peahen's. 

"Well,  sir!"  he  said. 

I  mentioned  the  object  of  my  visit. 

283 


MY   STOEY 

"  What  can  you  read?  " 

"  Novels  and  poems,"  I  answered. 

"  Don't  publish  either — good-day,"  he  said, 
and  I  went  out. 

But  one  of  the  very  best,  and  quite,  I  think, 
the  very  oldest  of  publishers  now  living,  re- 
ceived me  differently. 

"  Come  into  my  own  room,"  he  said.  It  was 
a  lovely  little  place,  full  of  an  atmosphere  that 
recalled  the  publishing  house  of  the  old  days, 
half  office,  half  study ;  a  workshop  where  books 
might  be  made,  not  turned  out  by  machinery. 
I  read  many  manuscripts  for  that  publisher, 
and  must  have  learned  much  by  the  experience. 
And  now  that  my  novel  was  finished  I  took  it 
to  him  first.  He  offered  to  publish  it  the  fol- 
lowing year.  That  did  not  suit  me,  and  I  took 
my  book  elsewhere.  Next  day  I  was  offered 
£50  for  my  copyright.  That  was  wages  at  the 
rate  of  about  four  shillings  a  day  for  the  time 
I  had  been  actually  engaged  upon  the  work, 
straining  brain  and  heart  and  every  faculty. 
Nevertheless,  one  of  my  friends  urged  me  to 
accept  it. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"  Because  it  is  a  story  of  the  past,  and  there- 
fore not  one  publisher  in  ten  will  look  at  it." 

I  used  strong  language,  and  then  took  my 

284 


I   BECOME   A   NOVELIST 

novel  to  Chatto  &  Windus.  Within  a  few  hours 
Mr.  Chatto  made  me  an  offer  which  I  accepted. 
The  story  I  have  told  of  many  breakdowns 
in  the  attempt  to  write  my  first  novel  may  sug- 
gest the  idea  that  I  was  merely  serving  my 
apprenticeship  to  fiction.  It  is  true  that  I  was, 
but  it  would  ])e  wrong  to  conclude  that  the 
writing  of  a  novel  has  been  plain  sailing  with 
me  ever  since.  Let  me  "  throw  a  crust  to  my 
critics,"  and  confess  that  I  am  serving  my  ap- 
prenticeship still.  Every  book  that  I  have 
written  since  has  offered  even  greater  difficul- 
ties. Not  one  of  the  little  series  but  has  at 
some  moment  been  a  despair  to  me.  There 
has  always  been  a  point  of  the  story  at  which 
I  have  felt  confident  that  it  must  kill  me.  I 
have  written  nine  novels  (that  is  to  say  about 
ninety)  and  sworn  as  many  oaths  that  I  would 
never  begin  another.  The  public  expects  a 
novel  to  be  light  reading.  It  may  revenge 
itself  for  an  occasional  disappointment  by  re- 
membering that  a  novel  is  not  always  light 
writing. 


CHAPTER   V 


R,    D.    BLACKMORE 


ONE  of  the  kindest  things  said  about  my 
first  novel  at  the  moment  of  its  publi- 
cation was  that  it  smelt  of  the  peat, 
which  was  the  distinguishing  odour  of  "  Lorna 
Doone,"  and  this  coupling  of  my  first  work  of 
fiction  with  Blackmore's  masterxjiece  quickly 
led  to  a  personal  friendship  with  one  of  the 
least  known  but  most  fascinating  personalities 
of  my  time. 

Whether  Blackmore  wrote  in  the  first  in- 
stance to  me  or  I  to  him  I  cannot  now  recall, 
but  among  his  earliest  letters  I  find  one  which 
says : 

"  Your  publishers  have  kindly  sent  me  a  copy 
of  '  The  Shadow  of  a  Crime,'  and  I  am  reading 
it  carefully.  Your  style  does  not  permit  any 
skipping.  No  work  that  does  so  is  of  much 
value.  So  far  as  I  can  yet  judge,  the  book  is 
full  of  power  and  true  imagination.  To  the 
critical  gift  I  have  no  claim;  but  I  seem  to 

286 


R.    D.    BLACKMORE 

myself  to  know  when  I  come  across  genu- 
ine matter.  And  you  have  also  that  respect 
for  yourself  and  your  readers,  which  is  a 
sine  qua  non  for  the  achievement  of  great 
work.  However,  I  will  not  show  my  own  de- 
ficiency in  that  quality  by  offering  premature 
remarks." 

But  Blackmore  could  be  a  frank  critic  as  well 
as  a  generous  appreciator,  and  a  day  or  two 
later  than  the  date  of  this  letter  he  wrote  again 
in  terms  of  much  more  limited  praise. 

"  I  would  not  write  again,"  he  says,  "  until 
I  had  read  your  book  through,  which  I  have 
now  done  with  great  care.  My  opinion  is  of 
very  little  value ;  but  so  far  as  I  can  distinctly 
form  one  it  is  as  follows :  There  is  any  amoimt 
of  vigour  and  power  and  some  real  pathos 
(which  is,  of  course,  a  part  of  power),  also 
there  are  many  other  merits,  a  strong  English 
style,  great  knowledge  of  character,  keen  ob- 
servation, and  much  originality. 

"  But  I  think  you  will  improve  upon  this  book 
vastly  as  experience  grows.  The  incidents  ap- 
pear to  me  to  be  huddled,  without  sense  of 
proportion  now  and  then,  and  there  is  much 
strain  upon  credulity.  But  I  am  loath  to  find 
fault,  knowing  I  am  not  a  skilled  workman 
myself." 

287 


MY    STORY 

After  the  publication  of  my  second  and  third 
novels  Blackmore  was  no  less  generous  and  no 
less  kindly. 

"  It  has  always  seemed  to  me,"  he  said,  "  that 
your  turn  of  mind  and  power  of  creation  are 
specially  dramatic,  and  that  you  will  write  if 
once  you  take  to  that  form  a  very  grand  and 
moving  play.  There  is  no  one  who  can  do  that 
now,  so  far,  at  least,  as  I  can  judge,  and  I  shall 
be  proud  if  I  live  long  enough  to  see  you 
achieve  it. 

"  But  for  novel  writing  you  have  not  yet  (ac- 
cording to  my  small  judgment)  the  sense  of 
proportion  and  variety  which  are  needful  for 
pleasant  work.  I  have  read  with  great  care 
your  latest  book,  and  have  admired  and  been 
stirred  by  it.  But  to  my  mind  (which  is  not  at 
all  a  critic  one)  there  is  not  the  sliding  and 
the  quiet  shifting  and  the  sense  of  pause 
which  are  perhaps  only  the  mechanical  parts 
of  great  work,  but  help  to  lift  it.  I  cannot 
exactly  express  my  meaning,  and  I  have  no 
science  to  second  it;  and  I  know  that  I  can- 
not do  the  thing  itself,  and  never  attempt  it 
consciously." 

There  was  always  encouragement  as  well  as 
counsel  in  Blackmore's  excellent  letters,  and 
little  glimpses  into  his  own  life  and  character 

288 


R.    D.   BLACKMORE 

that  were  always  interesting,  and  sometimes 
beautiful. 

"  I  conclude  that  you  have  left  the  Isle  of 
Man,"  he  wrote,  "  and  hope  you  are  working 
at  a  book,  quocimque  jeceris  stabit.  Any  work 
of  yours  will  now  command  a  larger  circle  than 
the  critics,  to  whom,  like  myself,  you  owe  little. 
If  the  matter  were  of  more  interest,  I  would 
print  the  first  notices  of  '  Lorna  Doone,'  which 
they  are  now  quoting  as  a  standard.  I  have 
them  somewhere,  and  a  damp  bed  they  are  to 
smother  a  shy  guest  in.  But  you  know  well 
enough  how  these  men  fumble  the  keys  of  an 
open  door." 

I  met  Blackmore  first  in  the  earliest  days  of 
our  acquaintance.  He  came  to  the  gate  of  his 
garden  at  Teddington  to  meet  me  on  my  alight- 
ing from  the  train.  An  elderly  man,  of  more 
than  middle  height  and  full  proportions,  with 
a  clear-cut  face,  clean  shaven  except  for  a  tuft 
of  gray  hair,  in  the  manner  of  fifty  years  ago, 
down  the  cheek.  He  wore  a  straw  hat  with  a 
wide  brim,  and  gave  generally  the  impression 
of  a  comfortable  old  Quaker.  His  eyes  were 
neither  large  nor  brilliant,  and  gave  no  hint 
of  having  looked  on  the  burning  bush.  The 
expression  was  calm,  and  there  was  a  solid 
strength  in  face,  figure,  and  bearing.    I  should 

289 


MY    STORY 

have  said  he  was  then  a  man  in  good  health, 
on  fairly  good  terms  with  life,  and  that  he  had 
certainly  slept  o'  nights. 

That  day  our  talk  was  not  literary.  He  had 
a  large  garden,  which  he  thought  he  cultivated 
for  profit,  although  it  had  always  involved  him 
in  a  steadily  increasing  loss.  His  wife,  who 
was  lately  dead,  used  to  say  that  but  for  the 
"  profits  "  of  his  work  in  the  garden  they  might 
live  in  ease  and  content.  But  Blackmore  knew 
what  he  was  doing.  He  loved  his  garden,  he 
loved  his  trees,  above  all  he  loved  his  pears, 
and  literature  can  have  had  no  rewards  so  dear 
to  him  as  his  annual  deficit  on  his  seventeen 
acres.  We  walked  over  them  for  several 
hours,  and  he  talked  of  his  fruit  and  flowers 
with  as  much  tenderness  as  if  they  had  been 
human  beings.  God  had  given  him  no  other 
children,  and  he  was  then,  I  think,  quite 
alone.  Somewhat  later  his  affectionate  young 
niece  came  to  take  charge  of  the  place  his 
wife  had  left  vacant,  and  the  lonely  man 
became  less  lonely,  but  it  was  well  for  him 
always  that  he  had  his  garden  to  love  and 
care  for. 

His  occupations  as  a  market  gardener  gave 
him  a  good  deal  of  amusement.  He  was  full  of 
stories  of  his  experiences  with  his  men,  with  the 

290 


R.    D.    BLACKMORE 

carters  who  took  his  fruit  to  Covent  Garden, 
and  with  the  people  he  bought  his  seeds  and 
manure  from.  The  general  effect  of  these 
stories  was  that  he  knew  he  was  often  cheated, 
and  that  he  enjoyed  the  simplicity  of  the  means 
employed  to  hoodwink  him.  One  story,  I  re- 
member, was  of  a  carter,  who  dropped  into  the 
trap  of  the  boy  in  the  legend,  who  rendered 
his  master  an  account,  beginning :  "  A  shil- 
ling's worth  of  eggs — eighteen  pence."  The 
fellow  worked  for  Blackmore  for  many  years 
at  a  workman's  wages,  and  while  his  master 
lost  on  an  average  five  hundred  pounds  a  year 
on  growing  fruit,  his  gardener  built  a  row  of 
cottages  on  selling  it.  -The  whirlwind  came, 
however,  one  Saturday  night,  when  the  man 
had  the  ill  luck  to  return  home  from  market 
drunk,  and  the  money  in  his  purse  showed  a 
surplus  of  several  pounds  over  his  account. 
Another  of  Blackmore's  stories  was  of  buying 
manure  from  a  farmer,  who  knew  nothing  of 
his  celebrity  outside  the  business  of  market 
gardening. 

"How  much  a  ton?"  said  Blackmore. 

"  Well,"  said  the  farmer,  "  I'm  charging  the 
gentlemen  seven-and-six,  but  you  shall  have  it 
for  five." 

Blackmore's  house  stood  in  the  middle  of  his 

291 


MY   STOKY 

garden,  and  was  a  plain  square  structure  of 
the  simplest  kind.  He  had  built  it  himself,  and 
it  expressed  his  own  character  in  the  absence 
of  every  unnecessary  ornament.  No  house 
could  be  less  like  the  literary  man's  home, 
which  usually  gathers  about  it  signs  and  sym- 
bols of  its  class.  Comparatively  few  books, 
and  those  he  had  were  chiefly  classical,  such 
as  one  might  find  in  the  house  of  a  school- 
master or  the  library  of  a  monastery,  with  a 
fair  sprinkling  of  treatises  on  horticulture. 
Novels  there  were,  but  mainly  presentation 
copies  of  works  of  friends,  with  here  and  there 
a  series  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray. 

His  workroom  was,-  I  think,  also  his  bed- 
room, an  upstairs  room  of  medium  size,  where- 
of the  most  notable  feature  was  a  multi- 
tudinous collection  of  meerschaum  pipes  of 
varying  size  and  degree  of  rosy  colour.  He 
was  a  great  smoker,  and  loved  to  have  his  huge 
pipes  aliout  him.  There  were  few  photographs 
except  those  of  Sir  Richard  Owen  and  certain 
other  friends  of  earlier  years.  One  thing  only 
would  have  betrayed  the  fact  that  this  was  the 
home  of  Blackmore.  On  the  drawing-room 
table  there  was  a  large  album  devoted  ex- 
clusively to  the  portraits  of  girls  called  Lorna, 
after   his   beloved   heroine   of   that   name.    A 

292 


E.   D.   BLACKMOEE 

lovely  collection  of  sweet  faces  which  he  could 
not  help  being  j^roud  of.  For  he  was  godfather 
to  a  vast  family  of  beautiful  children. 

The  fifteen  years  following  my  first  visit  to 
Teddington  ripened  our  friendship  to  the  clos- 
est intimacy.  He  had  few  friends  among  lit- 
erary people,  and  except  for  Thomas  Hardy, 
of  whom  he  had  seen  little  in  later  years,  he 
had  hardly  a  personal  acquaintance  of  his  own 
class.  My  visits  to  Blackmore  were  not  as  fre- 
quent as  they  would  have  been  but  for  the  dis- 
tance which  separated  our  homes,  but  our 
correspondence  was  almost  constant,  and  T 
have  many  of  his  charming  letters.  They  are 
among  the  best  letters  I  have  ever  received, 
bright,  humorous,  full  of  pretty  phrases,  with 
extraordinary  power  of  condensed  expression, 
rhythmical  in  style,  and  generous  in  tone. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem  to  say  so,  Blackmore 
was  not  naturally  a  story-teller,  and  his  suc- 
cess in  fiction  is  only  another  proof  (of  which 
George  Eliot's  case  is,  I  think,  the  most  nota- 
ble example)  that  it  is  possible  to  write  great 
novels  without  being  by  natural  gift  a  story- 
teller at  all.  One  knows  the  story-teller  the 
moment  he  speaks,  just  as  one  recognises  the 
humourist  the  instant  he  enters  the  room,  and 
Blackmore's  conversation,  though  greatly  in- 
20  293 


MY    STORY 

teresting,  had  never  the  vivacity,  the  surprise, 
and  the  grip  of  the  talk  of  the  man  who  is  bom 
with  the  faculty  for  telling  a  story.  It  was, 
therefore,  not  surprising  to  hear  him  say  he 
became  a  novelist  by  the  pressure  of  circum- 
stance. 

I  think  he  told  me  that  after  leaving  the  uni- 
versity he  was  for  a  while  a  tutor,  and  then 
entered  the  chambers  of  a  conveyancer  named 
Warner,  and  was  called  to  the  bar.  But  no 
practice  came  to  him,  and  he  began  to  write — 
on  classical  subjects  first  by  the  choice  of  his 
mind,  for  he  was  an  excellent  Greek  scholar. 
Nobody  wanted  his  scholarship,  however,  and 
he  began  to  ask  himself  what  the  public  really 
did  want.  His  first  attempts  at  popular- 
ity were  in  the  way  of  the  drama,  and  he 
wrote  on  a  Scandinavian  subject  a  play  which 
was  never  produced.  It  had  a  powerful  dra- 
matic incident  and  some  excellent  dialogue, 
but  no  motive  and  no  structure.  Failing  to 
interest  the  actors,  he  went  next  to  the  pub- 
lic direct  with  an  essay  in  fiction.  Here  his 
success  was  better,  although  not  quick,  and 
culminated  in  the  great  triumph  of  "  Lorna 
Doone." 

Not  being  naturally  a  story-teller,  though  a 
splendid  recorder  of  stories,  he  invented  very 

294 


R.    D.    BLACKMORE 

little,  and  depended  largely  on  fact  and  mem- 
ory. I  think  he  told  me  that  for  almost  every- 
thing he  had  written  he  had  the  authority  of 
some  original.  John  Ridd  had  his  counterpart 
in  life,  and  Blackmore's  old  father,  a  clergy- 
man of  the  old  type,  had  served  his  son  for  a 
model  several  times.  I  think  Lorna  herself 
came  more  directly  out  of  the  heart  of  her  cre- 
ator, and  I  see  Blackmore's  own  nature  in 
many  of  his  children,  both  male  and  female, 
but  he  did  not  greatly  trust  himself  in  the  in- 
vention of  incident,  and  the  wings  of  his 
imagination  always  kept  close  to  the  ground. 
Hence,  no  doubt,  the  vivid  reality  of  his  nar- 
rative, and  hence,  also,  the  slowness  of  his 
pace. 

Perhaps  the  thing  that  struck  one  first  in 
Blackmore  was  his  impatience  of  the  great 
fame  of  "  Lorna  Doone."  In  all  soberness  he 
would  have  you  believe  that  the  success  of  that 
book,  beginning  nearly  a  year  after  its  publi- 
cation, was  due  to  a  blimder  on  the  part  of  the 
public  that,  coming  at  the  moment  of  the  mar- 
riage of  the  Princess  Louise,  the  story  had 
something  to  do  with  the  Marchioness  of  Lome. 
And  then  his  joy  at  the  vast  welcome  given  to 
his  offspring  was  always  a  little  marred  by 
vexation  that  the  public  made  a  favourite  of 

295 


MY    STORY 

Loma,  to  the  disadvantage  of  all  her  younger 
sisters. 

Blaekmore  was  not  philosophical  in  his  im- 
patience of  Lorna's  preeminence  in  public 
favour.  He  did  not  make  allowance  for  the 
natural  limitations  of  the  public.  The  author 
who  has  won  the  great  love  of  a  section  of  the 
people  for  one  story  or  one  character  must 
never  hope  and  never  desire  to  oust  that  love 
in  favour  of  another  story  or  character.  He 
must  go,  if  he  can,  to  another  section  of  the 
people  and  turn  up  fallow  ground.  If  he  can- 
not do  that,  he  is  wiser  to  be  silent,  for  it  is 
not  enough  that  his  later  books  should  be  as 
good  as  his  earlier  ones  of  the  same  kind  to 
win  the  same  favour — they  must  be  a  hundred- 
fold better.  Hence  the  repeated  cry  that  au- 
thors fail  of  their  former  strength,  when  they 
are  usually  only  beating  at  the  same  door. 
Blaekmore  suffered  more  than  any  author  of 
the  time  from  this  cuckoo  cry  that  he  had  writ- 
ten one  book  only,  while  in  truth  he  had  written 
half  a  dozen  that  were  enough  to  make  the 
reputations  of  as  many  lesser  men. 

It  is  true,  however,  that  toward  the  end  his 
higher  quality  failed  him.  No  wonder  it  was 
so,  for  his  bodily  health  was  failing  him  also, 
and  with  it  some  faculties  of  mind,  memory 

296 


E.    D.   BLACKMOKE 

above  all.  One  day  I  found  him  makin.!^,  on 
the  flyleaf  of  his  manuscript  book,  a  list  of  the 
characters  of  a  new  novel,  with  particulars  of 
their  ages  and  the  colour  of  their  eyes  and 
hair.  Another  day  he  was  writing  the  third 
version  of  a  short  Christmas  story,  which  he 
set  no  store  by  beyond  the  fee  it  was  to  bring 
him,  and  that  was  eaten  up  by  the  time  he  had 
spent  on  it. 

It  was  pitiful,  but  then  there  was  that  be- 
loved garden  to  keep  going,  and  another  spur 
less  easy  to  talk  about — the  desire  not  to  be 
entirely  overlooked  in  the  race  of  life,  or  to 
be  written  about  as  if  one  were  already  dead. 
Blackmore  knew  that  his  generation  was  for- 
getting him  as  a  living  man,  and  the  thought 
must  have  hurt,  but  it  never  rankled.  He  saw 
younger  men  arise,  and  he  was  too  strong,  too 
generous,  too  much  of  a  man  to  grudge  them 
the  places  they  won  for  themselves.  He  had 
had  his  own  day,  and  on  the  whole  the  world 
had  been  good  to  him,  and  life  had  been  worth 
living.  So  let  others  have  their  turn,  and  God 
bless  them ! 

Blackmore's  health  had  been  failing  him  for 
years.  First  a  strange  half-paralysis  of  one 
hand,  then  occasional  internal  pain,  then  pain 
every  day  and  every  hour.     A  change  to  the 

297 


MY    STORY 

South  Coast,  to  Wales,  and  then  back  to  Ted- 
dmgton,  but  no  sensible  improvement.  Some 
trouble  of  the  colon  at  last  that  was  sure  to 
kill  him.  His  letters  were  always  cheerful,  but 
he  was  not  buoying  himself  up  with  any  false 
hopes.  The  end  was  coming,  and  it  was  only 
a  question  of  soon  or  late.  I  saw  him  last  in 
the  early  autumn.  The  full  proportions  were 
gone,  and  he  was  only  the  shadow  of  the  man 
I  had  known  first.  The  old  workroom  bed- 
room was  his  sick  room  now,  and  medicine 
bottles  filled  up  every  comer  of  the  shelves  not 
occupied  by  the  big  pipes.  His  pain  was  con- 
stant, and  he  was  always  taking  drugs  to  re- 
lieve it,  but  his  cheerfulness  continued.  Of 
course  all  work  was  at  an  end,  but  in  the  long 
hours  of  the  sleepless  nights  he  was  still  read- 
ing. The  series  of  Dickens  was  standing  him 
in  good  stead. 

"  He  is  the  only  one  I  can  read  now,"  he 
said. 

I  was  going  to  Eome  for  the  winter,  and  we 
both  knew  that  was  the  last  we  were  to  see  of 
each  other.  In  the  best  way  I  could,  I  tried 
to  tell  him  how  much  his  friendship  had  been 
to  me;  how  it  had  strengthened  and  stimulated 
me;  and  then  to  say,  with  what  delicacy  I 
could,  that  it  must  be  a  splendid  thing,  after 

298 


R.    D.    BLACKMORE 

all,  to  look  back  on  a  long  life  without  a  stain, 
and  on  having  produced  several  works  of  high 
quality,  and  on  leaving  one  novel  behind  that 
would  surely  be  ranked  with  the  best  twelve  of 
the  century. 

He  listened  to  me  with  the  simplicity  of  his 
sincere  nature,  and  seemed  to  take  comfort 
from  what  I  said.  A  few  weeks  later  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  him  saying  that  he  was 
now  forbidden  to  see  anybody,  and  was  an  exile 
for  the  short  remainder  of  his  life.  He  bade 
me  good-bye,  and  returning  to  what  I  had  said, 
he  wrote  a  few  tender  and  touching  words 
about  myself,  and  the  life  that  might  be  before 
me.  It  is  mv  own  fault  if  I  am  not  the  better 
as  long  as  I  live  for  having  come  so  close  to 
one  of  the  truest  hearts  and  finest  intellects  of 
the  age. 


CHAPTER   VI 


MY    FIRST    MANX    NOVEL 


I  HAD  written  two  novels  with  their  scenes 
in  Cumberland,  my  mother's  country,  be- 
fore I  thought  of  carrying  out  the  sugges- 
tion of  Eossetti  that  I  should  try  to  become 
the  novelist  of  Manxland,  but  now  I  began  to 
see  how  readily  the  island  lent  itself  to  literary 
treatment,  not  merely  for  its  own  sake,  but 
also  for  the  sake  of  those  great  themes  of 
human  sin  and  sorrow  which  are  never  so  well 
illustrated  as  when  brought  down  to  a  little 
scene,  a  narrow  focus,  from  the  general  to 
the  particular.  So  I  went  with  my  project 
of  becoming  a  Manx  novelist  to  consult  a 
famous  Manxman  of  his  day,  the  Rev.  Hugh 
Stowell  Brown. 

Brown  disapproved  of  it  altogether.  "  Don't 
attemjjt  it,"  he  said.  "  If  you  do,  you  will 
have  a  lasting  disappointment.  The  readers 
of  novels  don't  care  one  straw  about  the 
Isle  of  Man.     Nobody  cares   about  it,  and  I 

300 


MY    FIRST    MANX    NOVEL 

would  earnestly  counsel  you  to  dismiss  the 
thought." 

Fortunately  for  myself,  I  think,  I  saw  rea- 
sons for  doubting  the  wisdom  of  Brown's 
advice,  and,  by  way  of  experiment,  I  wrote  a 
little  Manx  story  which  no  one  remembers  now, 
except  in  America,  where  they  are  so  indulgent 
to  my  failure  that  they  sell  it  at  five  cents  in 
tens  of  thousands.  But  under  happier  inspira- 
tion I  tried  again.  In  dismissing  me  with  his 
wet  blanket,  my  friend  had  said: 

"  But  if  you  must  write  about  that  God-for- 
saken little  island,  you  ought  to  go  to  my 
brother  Tom." 

I  did  not  go  to  his  brother  Tom,  but  with 
characteristic  sweetness  his  brother  Tom  came 
to  me,  and  thus  began  one  of  the  tenderest  and 
truest  friendships  of  my  life,  my  friendship 
with  the  racy,  the  brilliant,  the  entirely  charm- 
ing and  delightful  author  of  "  Fo'c's'le  Yams," 
the  most  loyal,  the  most  generous,  the  most  un- 
selfish of  men.  If  I  quote  from  the  letters  he 
wrote  to  me  at  the  beginning  of  our  acquaint- 
ance more  than  one  passage  which  modesty 
might  call  upon  me  to  suppress,  I  shall  do  so 
with  one  object  only — to  reveal  to  the  reader 
the  large  generosity,  the  measureless  charity, 
the    splendid    if    too    lavish    appreciativeness 

301 


MY    STORY 

which  made  T.  E.  Brown,  for  all  who  knew 
him,  the  most  fascinating  of  friends. 

"  It  may  be  late,"  he  wrote,  "  but  even  so 
I  must  write  to  tell  you  with  what  pleasure  I 
have  read  your  Cumberland  storj^.  I  think  it 
is  wholly  delightful.  The  style,  too,  is  admi- 
rable ;  in  fact,  it  is  a  style,  and  a  very  fine  one. 
"VYe  are  now  looking  out,  somewhat  nervously, 
for  a  successor  to  George  Eliot,  and  we  should, 
many  of  us,  be  well  content  to  see  a  successor 
to  Mrs.  Gaskell.  I  feel  that  you  belong  to  this 
rank  of  novelists,  and  that  the  sweet  gravity 
of  your  manner,  and  the  total  absence  of 
straining,  bring  you  perhaps  nearer  to  the  lat- 
ter than  to  the  former.  But  these  circum- 
stances of  distinction  are  very  great,  and  have 
gladdened  many  beside  me.  Please  pardon  this 
intrusion  upon  your  privacy.  I  would  not  have 
ventured  to  address  you  thus,  if  I  had  not 
reason  to  believe  that  you  are,  remotely,  it  may 
be,  a  fellow-countryman  of  mine.  Am  I  wrong 
in  supposing  that  you  derive  your  second  name 
from  the  Isle  of  Man?  You  published,  some 
time  ago,  in  the  Liverpool  Mercury,  a  tale  of 
Manx  life,  which  much  interested  me,  and 
served  rather  to  justify  my  conjecture. 

"  I  am  a  Manxman,  with  a  root  in  Cumbria, 
and  am  passionately  fond  of  both  countries; 

302 


2 

<! 


I-} 


O 

o 

t-t 

z 

B 


o 

2 
H 


MY   FIRST   MANX   NOVEL 

consequently  I  am,  in  some  sort,  made  to  be 
one  of  your  most  sympathetic  readers. 

"  It  is  possible  that  you  may  have  read  a  book 
of  mine  called  '  Fo'c's'le  Yarns,'  in  which  I  have 
tried  to  tell  a  few  Manx  stories.  If,  as  is  in- 
deed most  probable,  my  little  venture  has  not 
come  under  your  notice,  I  would  esteem  it  an 
honour  if  you  would  allow  me  to  send  you  a 
copy.  My  object,  however,  in  writing  to  you 
now  is  to  assure  you  of  my  warm  admiration 
and  sympathy.  The  mention  of  my  own  book 
you  will,  I  trust,  regard  as  an  attempt  to  pro- 
duce credentials  of  my  aptness  to  feel  the  sym- 
pathy which  I  have  tried  to  express." 

If  this  letter  indicated  a  breadth  of  sym- 
pathy that  was  apt  to  lose  itself  in  generosity, 
I  will  quote  again  to  show  that  Brown  could 
be  a  very  severe  as  well  as  a  very  appreciative 
critic.  When  I  began  to  lay  the  keel  for  my 
first  serious  Manx  novel  I  sent  a  scenario  to 
the  author  of  "  Fo'c's'le  Yams,"  and  this  is 
part  of  his  reply: 

"  Thanks  for  this  admission  to  the  secrets  of 
your  workshop.  The  story  is  most  interesting. 
I  think  it  best  to  return  the  sketch,  as  it  is  con- 
venient for  purposes  of  reference. 

"  It  could  not  possibly  be  placed  in  the  Isle 
of  Man  nor  timed  in  the  nineteenth  century. 

303 


MY    STORY 

"  The  Isle  of  Man  does  not  give  you  the  re- 
moteness of  place  which  you  want.  Norway 
might,  Kamchatka  might!  but  the  Isle  of  Man 
— no! 

"  Then  as  to  time : 

"  The  history  of  the  Isle  of  Man  since  the 
Revestment  (1765?)  is  not  legendary,  nor  has 
it  been  otherwise  than  very  clearly  defined 
since  the  Reformation.  It  is  an  eventless  his- 
tory, but  quite  ascertained,  and  rigid  within  its 
narrow  compass.  The  constitution  has  been 
singularly  unbroken;  there  is  not  the  faintest 
hint  of  any  such  resolution  as  you  postulate. 
The  House  of  Keys  was  cooptative  in  my  own 
time,  and  the  change  to  the  popular  method  of 
election  was  the  merest  migration  'from  the 
blue  bed  to  the  brown.' 

"  The  stage  is  inadequate  for  your  romance, 
and  moreover  it  is  quite  occupied  by  the  most 
obstinate  fixtures.  Your  Dooiney  (sic)  Mooar 
is  less  than  a  fable.  Where  can  you  get  him 
in?  He  is  not,  I  suppose,  the  Earl  of  Derby, 
or  the  Duke  of  Athol;  but,  if  he  is  not,  he 
ought  to  be,  for  these  gentlemen  hold  the 
field,  and  you  can't  get  rid  of  them.  It  is 
impossible  to  conceive  the  privileged  class,  or 
nobles,  of  whom  you  speak.  The  fact  is, 
you  would  take  the  Isle  of  Man  as  the  merest 

304 


MY    FliiST    MANX    NOVEL 

physical  basis,  and  construct  upon  it  a  whole 
system  of  manners,  institutions,  a  social  sys- 
tem, in  short,  which  it  never  knew.  It  can't 
be  done  at  the  distance;  it  can't  be  done 
at  all. 

"  Now,  why  not  cut  away  your  socio-politico- 
revolutionary  setting  altogether,  and  rely,  as 
no  doubt  you  desire  to  do,  on  the  sheer  humani- 
ties? The  Dooiney  Mooar  need  not  be  a  Lear, 
but  he  might  be  an  old  Manx  gentleman;  and 
instead  of  resigning  a  seigniority,  he  might 
resign  his  landed  estate.  Such  a  person,  and 
grouped  around  him  nearly  all  the  rest  of  your 
story,  you  could  place  about  the  year  1800. 
The  Duke  of  Athol  held  a  sort  of  court  in  those 
days;  he  brought  over  with  him  to  the  island 
a  choice  assortment  of  swashbucklers  and  cap- 
tains and  miscellaneous  blackguards.  .  .  .  This 
Athol  episode  is,  I  think,  capable  of  treatment; 
but  it  brings  us  perilously  near  our  own  time. 
Bishop  Wilson  was  an  *  epoch-making '  person- 
age. The  Church  and  State  question  was  then 
prominent.  He  was  a  complicated  man,  or,  at 
any  rate,  a  composite  one.  Never  was  man 
more  beloved,  never  was  there  a  serener  saint, 
never  a  more  brutal  tyrant.  But  why  seek  this 
sort  of  person  in  the  Isle  of  Man?  Think  of 
Laud  and  his  tremendous  stage.    lias  any  one 

305 


MY    STORY 

ever  '  done '  him,  and  the  robin  coming  into  his 
study,  and  '  all  to  that '  ? 

"  But  yours  is  a  Romance  1  Not  an  uncondi- 
tional Romance,  though,  I  suppose?  Your  sketch, 
as  related  to  a  background,  is  more  like  a  Fic- 
tion founded  upon  fiction,  or,  to  express  it 
nautically,  Fiction-by-fiction-half-fiction-with-a- 
little-bit-of-fiction." 

An  opinion  like  that  was  not  to  be  gainsaid, 
and  I  went  to  work  again,  getting  a  little  closer 
to  Manx  soil,  though  still  conscious  that  my 
theme  was  floating  over  the  real  Isle  of  Man 
as  over  an  island  of  Prospero  that  had  the  in- 
terest and  perhaps  the  charm  without  the  re- 
sponsibilities of  an  actual  country.  In  this 
second  effort  I  had  the  constant  sympathy  and 
assistance  of  my  correspondent,  and  when  at 
length  my  work  was  done,  the  best  reward  that 
came  to  me  was  the  whole-hearted  enthusiasm 
with  which  my  first  Manx  novel  was  received 
by  the  brilliant  Manxman. 

"  I  have  broken  a  finger  and  can  hardly  guide 
a  pen,"  he  wrote,  "  but  I  must  write  at  least  a 
scratch  or  two  to  tell  you  of  the  delight  with 
which  I  have  read  the  new  book.  I  confess  the 
first  volume  did  not  attract  me  much.  The 
quotations  from  '  Fo'c's'le  Yarns '  are  stitched 
on  in  a  patchy  way,  like  Dick-Quayle-Vessey's 

306 


MY    FIRST    MANX    NOVEL 

buttons.  Afterward  you  shake  yourself  free 
from  these  tags  and  bobs,  and  your  Manx  does 
not  suffer  for  it.  J)o  you  feel  nervous  about 
this  dialect  business?  I  think,  if  I  were  you, 
I'd  drop  it. 

"You  seem  to  have  used  a  poor  lecture  of 
mine  on  Manx  Proverbs.  Again,  I  should  say 
'  drop  it ' !  and  sic  melius  situm. 

"  The  Proverbs  seem  lugged  in,  and  some  of 
them  hang  in  the  air  a  propos  de  hottes.  To 
me  all  this  kind  of  thing  gives  an  air  of  weak- 
ness. But  in  the  second  vol.  we  rise  to  very 
noble  work  indeed.  Here  I  have  little  to  do  but 
to  confess  my  warmest  admiration,  and  so  on 
to  the  very  end." 

Then  follow  five  or  six  pages  in  Brown's 
minute  and  delicate  hand  of  just  and  searching 
criticism,  coupled  with  splendid  if  extravagant 
praise,  and  then  this  characteristic  passage: 

"  I  do  so  rejoice  in  that  stark  atmosphere — 
gray,  grim,  almost  colourless;  the  very  style 
is  in  outline-,  no  fat  paint,  no  prettiness,  no 
ornament — dark  silver,  dark  steel,  if  you  like. 
Mind,  I  would  not  have  you  overdo  this;  your 
sentences  are  just  on  the  point  of  becoming 
jerky ;  they  are  rigid,  but  you  must  not  let  them 
become  abrupt,  snapped  off  by  the  keenness 
of  their  own  internal  tension.     It  is  extraor- 

307 


MY    STORY 

dinary  how  whole  pages  of  this  book  affect  me 
as  beautiful  frostwork;  the  icicles  seem  to  ring 
in  the  thin  air. 

"But  I  do  like  this;  partly  it  is  a  vefie(n<; — 
i.  e.,  I  have  a  savage  sort  of  exultation  in  the 
thought  that  to  you  our  island  is  not  a  mere 
fairy  scene  of  the  '  lovely '  and  the  '  sweet '  and 
the  '  really  you  know  such  a  charming  little 
place ' — such  ferns,  such  mosses — positively 
demmee  a  little  paradise  of  primeval  simplicity 
not  incapable  of  Lawn-Tennis! 

"  Lord  God !  What  a  reception  for  the  Ed- 
wins and  Angelinas — this  cold  stern  rebuke  of 
yours !  But  to  the  a-werol,  to  those  who  know, 
what  comfort,  what  ghostly  consolation  in  this 
doiirnessl  Whj^,  there  is  not  even  a  picnic,  is 
there  ? 

"  You  have  evidently  given  up  the  notion  of 
a  story  which  we  discussed  some  time  ago ;  you 
had  thought  of  a  story  which  would  be  based 
upon  some  revolutionary  social  change.  I 
thought  this  would  transcend  the  little  Manx 
canvas.  I  rememljer — you  s]:»oke  of  Lear  and 
Macbeth,  and  so  people  do,  but  it's  really  Ger- 
vinus-Dowden,  and  you  are  well  rid  of  it. 

"  Your  story  fits  the  Isle  of  Man  like  a  lid 
to  a  box.  Now  if  you  had  gone  fumbling 
about  after  aions  and  transition  lEons  and  the 

308 


MY    FIRST    MANX   NOVEL 

progress  of  society,  God  damn  it,  man!  where 
should  we  have  been!  Adrift  upon  the  sea  of 
nowhere  in  the  good  ship  Utopia,  Captain 
Ovri<;.  As  it  is,  I  have  but  to  unstopper  this 
alabaster  box  of  precious  ointment,  and  up 
leaps  the  genuine  Manx  perfume  so  that  the 
house  is  filled  with  the  savour  thereof.  Never 
mind  the  little  hitches  of  dialect,  never  mind 
Dick-Quayle-Vessey's  buttons!  Whether  it's 
the  blood  in  you,  or  the  poet  and  diviner,  you 
know  all  about  it,  you  need  not  that  any  should 
tell  you  concerning  Man,  for  you  know  what  is 
Man,  and  that  in  two  senses." 

Bather  later  Brown  wrote  an  amusing  letter 
on  the  fact  that  for  nearly  a  year  after  pub- 
lication of  this  first  Manx  novel  the  island  itself 
appeared  to  be  totally  unaware  of  its  existence. 

"  I  am  perfectly  amazed  that,  as  yet,  no 
notice  of  your  book  has  appeared  in  the  Manx 
papers.  But  they  are  so  curious,  these  Manx 
pressmen!  Conceive  these  worthy  persons 
week  after  week  cramming  their  sheets  with 
Reports  of  Tynwald,  and  Local  Companies,  with 
the  facetiae  of  Auctioneers,  the  recriminations 
of  Town  Commissioners,  the  lucubrations  of 
Lockerby  v.  Cowin  of  "  The  Belvedere,"  and 
not  a  word,  so  far  as  I  know,  in  recognition  of 
the  fact  that  they  have  been  caught  to  the 
31  309 


MY   STOKY 

breast  of  genius,  and  that  when  all  their  little 
turmoils  shall  have  passed  into  the  Limbo  of 
fatuities,  '  The  Deemster '  will  live  in  the  lit- 
erature of  the  English  nation,  their  own  de- 
scendants abashed  and  wondering,  and  asking 
what  their  fathers  meant  bv  an  indifference  so 
stupid  and  so  unaccountable.  Of  course  I  can 
see  that  the  year  1887  must  always  be  an  epoch 
in  Manx  history,  the  year  '  The  Deemster '  was 
published,  not  the  year  of  the  three  rival  steam- 
boat companies." 

It  is  hard  for  me  to  hold  my  hand  in  quoting 
from  Bro^Ti's  letters,  and  if  I  have  already 
gone  too  far  in  reproducing  my  own  glorifica- 
tion, I  ask  my  readers  to  believe  that  of  all  the 
rewards  that  have  come  to  me  for  my  books 
the  most  precious  by  far  was  the  fact  that  cer- 
tain of  them  were  clasped  to  the  breast  of  the 
man  of  genius  who  wrote  "  Fo'c's'le  Yams." 

I  have  written  several  Manx  novels  since  that 
first  one,  calling  up  as  from  an  inexhaustible 
granary  the  crops  of  incident  and  character 
which  I  had  unconsciously  gathered  in  my 
youth,  and  perhaps  it  is  by  these  books,  what- 
ever their  shortcomings,  that  my  name  is  best 
known  to  the  public  in  general,  but  it  has  al- 
ways been  a  source  of  pathetic  amusement  to 
me  to  remember  how  the  island  itself  received 

310 


MY    FIRST    MANX    XOVPX 

its  first  novelist.  If  novels  had  been  written 
about  it  before,  that  fact  had  made  no  impres- 
sion upon  its  consciousness,  and  if  dialect 
poems  of  great  raciness  and  charm  had  been 
published  by  Brown,  the  rumour  of  them  had 
unhappily  not  gone  far.  But  now  for  the  first 
time  a  writer  of  story-books  had  penetrated 
into  its  households,  getting  into  the  heart  of 
the  country,  going  into  the  farm  houses,  and  de- 
liberately sitting  down  by  the  turf  fire  in  the 
"  chollagh."  The  outside  world  cannot  under- 
stand what  that  means ;  but  we  who  are  of  the 
soil  and  have  visions  of  stem  old  Churchmen 
and  grim  old  Methodists  in  every  village,  who 
never  saw  a  novel  in  their  lives,  and  would  not 
have  touched  one  with  the  longest  "  grip  "  if 
it  had  been  tossed  over  the  tail-board  of  a  cart, 
can  realise  the  feeling  with  which  the  island 
must  have  grasped  the  fact  that  a  degenerate 
son  of  her  own  was  (as  the  worthy  preacher 
on  the  "plan-beg"  put  it)  "actually  earning 
his  living  by  telling  lies," 

It  was  not  at  once,  however,  that  our  sober, 
class-leading  island  reconciled  itself  to  the  idea 
that  these  novels  were  fictions  at  all.  I  was 
constantly  hearing  them  discussed  as  fact. 
Shortly  after  the  publication  of  "  The  Deem- 
ster" a  good  Manxman  wrote  to  tell  me  that 

311 


MY    STORY 

lie  had  known  Dan  Mylrea  from  his  boyhood 
up,  that  he  had  often  warned  the  poor  boy 
against  the  way  he  was  going,  and  that,  when 
drink  got  the  better  of  him  at  last,  and  he 
killed  his  cousin  Ewan,  he  had  come  to  his 
house  on  the  night  of  the  murder  and  given 
him  the  knife  with  which  he  had  committed  the 
crime — and  my  correspondent  had  kept  it  ever 
since. 

After  "  The  Bondman,"  I  chanced  on  an  old 
Manxman  in  Kirk  Maughold,  who  told  me  he 
had  known  the  place  all  his  life,  and  he  remem- 
bered Adam  Fairbrother  and  the  six  big,  lazy 
brothers,  and  the  girl  Greeba,  and  the  mill  at 
Port-e-Vullin  (for  it  was  "  himself  that  felled 
it"),  but  he  was  "plagued  mortal"  to  fix 
Jason,  the  Icelander,  and  he  couldn't  meet 
with  any  one  in  the  parish  who  remembered 
anything  about  him.  After  "  The  Manxman," 
a  shrewd  old  friend  of  mine,  living  by  the  water- 
trough  on  Ballure,  conceived  the  idea  that  he 
was  the  hero  of  that  story,  a  photographer 
photographed  him  in  that  character,  and  now 
the  good  canny  man  does  a  comfortable  busi- 
ness by  selling  souvenirs  of  himself  as  the  only 
original  Pete  Quilliam,  whom  Kitty  Creegan 
was  so  heartless  as  to  run  away  from. 

But  whatever  the  attitude  of  the  Isle  of  Man 

312 


Runic  Crosses  at  Douglas  Kikk,  Bkaddon. 


a 


MY   FIRST   MANX   NOVEL 

toward  tlie  novels  that  are  chiefly  associated 
with  my  name,  I  comit  it  as  a  sufficient  return 
for  all  the  labour  they  gave  me  that  they 
brought  the  brotherly  friendship  of  T.  E. 
Brown.  Rossetti  alone  excepted,  he  was  the 
most  brilliant  and  fascinating  creature  I  have 
ever  known.  Half  sailor,  half  parson,  as  W. 
E.  Henley  happily  described  him,  a  thick-set, 
almost  "  stocky  "  person  to  look  upon,  with  a 
roll  in  his  walk,  and  a  sort  of  lurch  in  his  talk, 
too,  with  a  square  jaw,  a  moist  and  glistening 
eye,  a  mouth  that  could  be  as  firm  as  if  cast 
in  bronze  and  then  as  soft  as  if  blown  in  foam, 
strong  yet  tender,  full  of  the  joy  of  life,  de- 
lighting in  the  mere  sense  of  being  alive,  lov- 
ing the  mountains  and  the  sea  and  the  sky  and 
the  song  of  birds,  but  humanity  above  every- 
thing, and  woman  above  all — he  was  a  man, 
and  I  think  a  great  one. 

So  unusual  a  mixture  of  saint  and,  let  me 
say,  sinner,  of  scholar  and  poet,  and  parson 
and  ordinary  human  being  I  have  never  met 
in  any  other  being.  He  was  capable  of  the 
highest  flights  of  the  spirit  when  it  is  alone 
with  God  and  feels  the  knitting  together  of  the 
riven  tissues,  the  dew  of  Hermon,  the  balm 
of  Gilead;  but  there  was  no  sanctimoniousness 
about  Brown;  no  sickly  and  mawkish  religios- 

313 


MY    STORY 

ity;  lie  loved  to  adjust  his  ideas  to  tlie  rugged 
level  of  everyday  life,  to  tune  his  talk  to  the 
common  lingua  vulgaris  (with  an  occasional 
"Damn  it  all,  man!"),  whatever  conventions 
were  made  to  bleed.  No  affectation  ever 
touched  him,  no  pretence,  no  humbug  of  any 
kind.  As  a  poet  he  had  the  fulness  of  ma- 
ternal delight  in  all  that  came  up  from  the 
depths  of  his  being,  and  as  a  man  he  had  the 
never-failing  joy  of  his  masculinity. 

He  had  been  Vice-Principal  of  Clifton  Col- 
lege, and  when  he  retired  from  his  post  he 
made  his  home  in  the  Isle  of  Man.  With  no 
material  interest  in  the  welfare  and  prosperity 
of  his  native  island,  with  few  (how  few!)  in- 
tellectual associates  there,  parting  from  the 
friends  and  ways  of  life  of  thirty  years,  never- 
theless when  the  burden  of  his  work  was  done 
he  returned  to  the  Isle  of  Man  because  he  loved 
it,  because  it  was  linked. with  the  tenderest  mem- 
ories of  his  childhood  and  the  fondest  recollec- 
tions of  his  youth,  because  the  graves  of  his 
kindred  were  there,  and  he  had  heard  the  mys- 
terious call  that  comes  to  a  mans'  heart  from 
the  soil  that  gave  him  birth. 

I  suppose  there  was  a  sense  in  which  I  heard 
it,  too,  for  shortly  after  Brown  went  back  to 
the  Island  I  also  returned  to  it.     And  then — 

314 


MY    FIRST    MANX    NOVEL 

though  there  was  so  great  a  difference  between 
us — difference  of  age,  character,  and  attain- 
ments— we  became  the  closest  friends,  the  most 
constant  companions.  We  tramped  the  glens 
and  climbed  the  hills  together,  and  Brown 
would  lie  on  the  heather  for  sheer  love  of  the 
odour  of  the  earth  and  plunge  in  the  "  dubs  " 
of  cool  water  that  tumbled  and  roared  in  the 
deafening  caverns  of  the  rocks. 

Five  years  only  were  given  him  to  indulge 
his  great  love  of  home,  yet  how  much  he  got 
into  them!  How  he  spent  himself  for  the 
Manx  people,  without  a  thought  of  himself! 
If  only  a  handful  of  his  countrymen  called 
to  him  he  came  at  their  bidding.  He  was 
at  everybody's  service,  everybody's  command. 
Distance  was  as  nothing  even  to  his  failing 
strength,  time  as  nothing,  labour  as  nothing, 
and  the  penalties  he  paid  he  did  not  count. 

Sometimes  his  friends  have  thought  that  the 
Island  did  not  appreciate  all  this,  did  not  real- 
ise it  to  the  full,  did  not  rightly  apprehend  the 
sacrifices  that  were  being  made,  or  the  gener- 
ous disproportion  of  the  man  to  the  work  which 
he  allowed  himself  to  do.  But  there  can  be 
no  question  of  that  kind  now.  Manxmen  and 
Manxwomen  know  to-day  that  the  Island  lost 
in  Brown  the  greatest  man  who  was  ever  bom 

315 


MY    STORY 

to  it,  the  finest  brain,  the  noblest  heart,  the 
largest  nature  that  we  can  yet  call  Manx.  We 
do  not  point  to  his  scholarship  merely,  though 
that  was  splendid,  or  to  the  place  he  won  in 
life,  though  it  was  high  and  distinguished;  or 
yet  to  his  books,  though  they  were  full  of  the 
fire  of  genius  and  racy  of  the  soil  he  loved  the 
best.  None  of  these  answer  entirely  to  the 
idea  we  have  of  the  man  we  knew  and  loved 
so  well.  But  the  bright  and  brilliant  soul, 
so  strong,  so  humorous,  so  tender,  so  easily 
touched  to  sympathy,  so  gloriously  gifted,  so 
beautifully  unselfish — this  is  the  idea  that  an- 
swers to  our  memory  of  the  first  of  Manxmen 
in  the  present  age  or  any  other. 

When  I  pass  from  the  Island's  loss  to  my 
own  I  can  hardly  trust  myself  to  speak.  I  saw 
him  last  at  my  own  house  at  Greeba  on  a  day 
in  1897,  when  I  was  about  to  leave  home  for  a 
visit  to  Rome,  and  I  think  he  had  walked  across 
the  mountains  (no  unusual  adventure)  to  bid 
me  good-bye.  His  health  had  been  failing  for 
some  time,  and  he  was  rather  silent  and  I 
thought  sad.  At  length,  when  we  were  alone, 
in  reply  to  some  remark  of  my  own,  he  said : 

"  I  don't  wish  to  frighten  you,  but  I  want  to 
tell  you  that  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  I  will  not  be  here 
when  you  come  back." 

316 


MY    FIRST    MANX    NOVEL 

He  would  die  soon ;  he  felt  it ;  he  knew  it ;  he 
was  not  going  to  make  any  fuss  about  it;  life 
on  the  whole  had  been  worth  living,  and  he  was 
content. 

I  did  not  believe  for  a  moment  that  he  was 
right,  and  I  would  not  take  his  warning  seri- 
ously, though  I  see  now  that  I  might  have  done 
so,  knowing  how  free  he  was  from  morbid 
thoughts.  All  the  same,  the  last  letter  I  wrote 
before  leaving  home  was  written  to  him  say- 
ing, "  Good-bye  and  God  bless  you,"  and  such 
other  words  of  farewell  as  one  sends  to  one's 
friend  on  the  eve  of  a  long  journey.  But  he 
was  to  take  the  longer  journey  of  the  two,  and 
I  had  got  no  farther  than  Paris  when  four  lines 
in  the  Figaro — meagre  in  their  details,  full  of 
errors,  but  only  too  obviously  authentic — told 
me  that  Brown  was  dead. 

I  felt  then,  and  I  feel  now,  that  with  Brown's 
death  something  of  myself  died,  too,  the  better 
part  of  myself.  I  had  leaned  on  him  as  on  an 
elder  brother,  a  wiser,  stronger,  purer,  serener 
nature,  to  whom  I  could  go  at  any  time  for 
solace  and  counsel  and  support.  I  did  nothing 
without  consulting  him,  and  took  no  serious 
step  without  his  sanction.  My  stories  were  told 
to  him  first,  and  he  was  always  aware  of  my 
plans  and  intentions.    If  I  have  done  anything 

317 


MY    STORY 

which  deserves  to  be  remembered,  it  is  only 
myself  can  know  how  much  of  what  is  good  in 
it  is  but  a  reflection  from  the  light  of  his 
splendid  genius.  He  was  the  subtlest  of  ap- 
preciators,  the  most  enthusiastic  of  admirers, 
the  most  inspiring  of  critics,  the  most  loyal 
of  friends.  To  my  moods  of  depression  he 
brought  the  buoyancy  of  his  big  heart,  so  full 
of  hope  and  courage,  sustaining  me  amid  the 
despondency  of  failure  as  well  as  the  rarer,  but 
no  less  real,  despondency  of  success. 


CHAPTER    VII 


WILKIE    COLLINS 


ONE  of  the  best  of  the  rewards  which  my 
first  Manx  novel  brought  me  was  the 
friendship  of  Wilkie  Collins,  and  I  value 
among  the  most  priceless  of  my  possessions 
the  letter  he  wrote  to  me  after  reading  it.  It 
was  a  long  letter  full  of  generous  and  noble 
praise,  but  full,  too,  of  candid  and  valuable 
advice. 

"  Now  let  me  think  of  the  next  book  that  you 
will  write,"  he  said,  "  and  let  me  own  frankly 
where  I  see  some  room  for  improvement  in 
what  the  painters  call  '  treatment  of  the  sub- 
ject.' When  you  next  take  up  your  pen,  will 
you  consider  a  little  whether  your  tendency  to 
dwell  on  what  is  grotesque  and  violent  in 
human  character  does  not  require  some  dis- 
cipline? Look  again  at  'The  Deemster,'  and 
at  some  of  the  qualities  and  modes  of  thought 
attributed  to  his  nephew,  Dan. 

"  Again — your  power  as  a  writer  sometimes 

319 


MY    STORY 

misleads  you,  as  I  think,  into  forgetting  the 
value  of  contrast.  The  picture  which  your 
story  presents  of  terror  and  grief  wants  relief. 
Individually  and  collectively,  there  is  variety 
in  the  human  lot.  We  are  no  more  continu- 
ously wretched  than  we  are  continuously 
happy.  Next  time  I  want  more  of  the  humour 
which  breaks  out  so  delightfully  in  old  Quil- 
leash.  Those  l)reaks  of  sunshine  in  your 
splendid  cloudy  sky  will  be  a  truer  picture  of 
nature — and  will  certainly  enlarge  the  number 
of  your  admiring  readers.  Look  at  two  of  the 
greatest  of  tragic  stories,  '  Hamlet '  and  '  The 
Bride  of  Lammermoor,'  and  see  how  Shakes- 
peare and  Scott  take  every  opportunity  of  pre- 
senting contrasts  and  brightening  the  picture 
at  the  right  place. 

"  I  believe  you  have  not  even  yet  written 
your  best  book,  and  here  you  have  the  proof  of 
my  sincerity." 

I  did  not  know  Wilkie  Collins  long,  but  I 
knew  him  well.  He  had  written  saying  that  I 
should  be  welcome  to  call  upon  him,  but  must 
be  prepared  to  find  him  suffering  the  domestic 
agonies  of  moving  from  one  place  of  abode  to 
another. 

"  If  you  don't  object  to  a  room  without  a 
carpet  or  a  curtain,  I  can  declare  myself  still 

320 


WILKIE    COLLINS 

possessed  of  a  table  and  two  chairs,  pen  and 
ink,  cigars,  and  brandy  and  water,  and  I  should 
be  delighted  to  see  you." 

I  found  him  in  the  heart  of  London,  for  he 
was  then  living  in  Gloucester  Place.  The  house 
was  large  and  rather  dingy.  The  walls  were 
panelled,  the  stairs  were  of  stone,  the  hall 
was  cold,  and  the  whole  house  cheerless.  The 
door  had  been  answered  by  a  man-servant, 
whose  nervousness  and  diffidence  told  a  long 
story  in  advance  of  the  habits  of  close  retire- 
ment observed  by  the  master  I  had  come  to 
see.  On  the  walls  of  the  room  that  I  was  shown 
into  hung  pictures  of  the  greatest  interest. 
There  was  an  etching  of  Dickens  that  I  had 
never  seen  anj^iere  else,  showing  a  healthier 
and  handsomer  face  than  the  one  familiar  to 
the  public,  without  any  signs  either  of  the  days 
of  "  Hungerford  Market,"  or  of  the  death's 
hand  that  lay  heavy  on  it  at  the  last.  Then 
there  was  a  portrait  of  Collins  himself  in  the 
earliest  vears  of  his  manhood,  bovish,  even 
girlish,  almost  childlike  in  its  simple  expres- 
sion, and  with  the  forehead  that  belonged  to 
Collins  alone — round,  protrusive,  and  over- 
hanging heavily.  There  was  another  portrait 
of  the  author  by  Millais,  and  a  i^hotograph  by 
Sarony,    of    New   York,    representing    Collins 

321 


MY    STORY 

when  the  boyish  face  was  half  hidden  by  an 
abundant  beard,  and  the  Youthful  head  had 
grown  leonine. 

I  had  first  seen  Wilkie  some  Years  before, 
when  he  was  pointed  out  to  me  by  Rossetti.  It 
was  on  one  of  our  melancholy  drives  for  fresh 
air  and  exercise,  through  the  streets  and  parks 
of  London,  usually  with  the  windows  of  the 
carriage  up  and  the  poet  thrust  back  into  the 
comer  of  the  carriage,  behind  the  folds  of  his 
InYemess  cape,  and  under  the  shadow  of  his 
broad-brimmed  hat,  pulled  low  over  his  face. 
The  hidden  eyes  that  missed  nothing  saw  a 
figure  that  they  recognised  walking  past  us  on 
the  footpath. 

"  That  must  be  Wilkie  Collins,"  said  Rossetti, 
and  I  looked  and  saw  a  small,  elderly  man, 
gray-haired  and  gray-bearded,  large-eyed  and 
lion  -  headed,  round  -  shouldered  and  stooping 
heavily.  That  was  my  first  glimpse  of  Collins, 
and,  swift  as  it  was,  it  left  its  vivid  impression, 
so  that  when  he  came  into  the  room  to  wel- 
come me,  I  remembered  in  a  moment  that  I  had 
seen  him  before. 

But  he  had  grown  feebler  in  the  interval, 
paler  in  the  face,  and  more  flabby.  His  eyes 
at  that  time  were  large  and  protuberant,  and 
they  had  the  vague  and  dreamy  look  that  is 

322 


WILKIE   COLLINS 

sometimes  seen  in  the  eyes  of  the  blind.  Per- 
haps I  should  come  near  to  giving  the  right 
impression  if  I  were  to  add  that  the  expres- 
sion of  Collins's  eyes  at  this  period  of  his  life 
was  that  of  a  man  to  whom  chloroform  had 
just  been  administered.  They  fixed  my  atten- 
tion instantly,  and  Collins  saw  that  it  was  so. 
Perhaps  he  suspected  that  I  read  their  strange 
look  by  the  light  of  my  experience  with  Ros- 
setti;  perhaps  he  was  loath  to  trust  me  then 
as  he  trusted  me  later ;  but  before  we  had  been 
talking  long  he  interrupted  the  conversation 
and  said: 

"  I  see  that  you  can't  keep  your  eyes  off  my 
eyes,  and  I  ought  to  say  that  I've  got  gout 
in  them,  and  that  it  is  doing  its  best  to  blind 
me." 

I  found  him  a  good  and  animated  talker, 
never  spontaneous,  but  always  vigorous  and 
right.  His  voice  was  full  and  of  even  quality; 
a  good  voice,  not  at  all  a  great  one.  In  manner 
he  was  quiet,  a  little  nerv^ous,  and  not  prone  to 
much  gesture.  He  sat,  while  he  talked,  with 
his  head  half  down,  and  his  eyes  usually  on  the 
table;  but  he  looked  into  one's  face  from  time 
to  time,  and  then  his  gaze  was  steady  and  en- 
couraging, and  one  never  felt  for  a  moment 
that  his  eye  was  upon  one. 

323 


MY    STOEY 

Indeed,  without  being  the  most  "  magnetic  " 
of  men,  Collins  was  a  man  to  set  one  at  one's 
ease,  to  get  the  best  out  of  one,  to  send  one 
away  with  a  comfortable  feeling  toward  one's 
self,  and  yet  a  man  with  a  proper  sense  of 
personal  dignity.  You  never  knew  it  for  dig- 
nity, and  that  was  exactly  where  its  strength 
lay.  The  same  large  grasp  of  fact  and  com- 
mand of  detail  which  one  found  in  the  novels 
one  found  in  the  novelist.  If  his  conversation 
was  not  luminous  and  large,  if  his  outlook  on 
life  was  not  wide,  if  his  horizon  was  not  far 
away,  neither  were  they  little  and  narrow  and 
near.  His  insight  was  sure,  his  memory  un- 
failing, and  his  invention  strong. 

At  that  first  meeting  we  talked  on  many  sub- 
jects. I  remember  that  I  wanted  information 
on  the  coi^yright  law,  for  the  plot  of  one  of 
my  novels  had  been  taken  by  some  dramatic 
thief,  and  I  had  a  mind  to  fight  him.  Collins 
was  very  full,  very  precise,  and  very  emphatic 
on  that  subject,  having  paid  liitterly  for  special 
knowledge  over  two  of  his  own  stories,  "  The 
Woman  in  White  "  and  "  The  New  Magdalen." 
He  was  quite  sure  that  I  had  not  a  leg  to  stand 
on,  though  of  course  he  joined  his  wail  with 
mine  over  the  iniquitous  law  that  recognised 
a  copyright  in  words  and  none  in  ideas. 

324 


\\  ILKIK    CoLLIXS. 


WILKIE    COLLINS 

Then  we  talked  of  French  writers,  and  he 
said  something  that  I  cannot  remember  of  how 
he  met  with  Victor  Hugo,  whose  plays,  no  less 
than  his  novels,  he  admired.  But  the  elder 
Dumas  among  French  novelists  was  clearly 
the  god  of  his  idolatry,  and  "  The  Three  Mus- 
keteers "  was  his  ideal  of  a  great  story.  He 
had  been  many  times  in  the  way  of  meeting 
Dumas,  but  had  never  done  so.  Then  he  talked 
of  Scott,  whom  he  valued  beyond  words  of  ap- 
praisement, thinking  "  The  Bride  of  Lammer- 
moor "  the  greatest  of  all  prose  tragedies. 
Something  he  said,  too,  of  Dickens,  but  only  in 
the  character  of  a  near  and  dear  friend,  with 
a  perceptible  sinking  of  the  soft  voice  and  a 
noticeable  melting  of  the  gentle  eyes.  Charles 
Keade  was  also  mentioned  in  relation  to  a 
memoir  that  had  then  been  lately  published, 
and  the  impression  left  with  me  was  that  the 
rougher  side  of  Reade's  character  had  never 
been  seen  by  Collins  except  as  the  whole  world 
saw  it  in  the  squabbles  of  the  newspapers. 

I  seem  to  have  dwelt  too  long  on  this  first 
interview,  but,  indeed,  it  was  the  type  of  many 
interviews  that  followed  it.  I  consulted  him  on 
schemes  for  novels,  and  discussed  with  him 
the  structure  of  several  of  my  stories.  He  was 
always  kindly,  always  alert,  always  enthusi- 
22  325 


MY    STORY 

astic,  always  capable  of  entering  into  the  hopes 
and  aims  of  a  younger  literary  colleague. 

His  letters  were  as  full  of  pith  as  his  con- 
versation. Nothing  appeared  in  them  more 
frequently  than  his  boyish  delight  in  his  work. 
It  was  not  done  easily,  but  with  great  and  often 
grievous  labour — labour  of  conception,  of  con- 
struction, and  of  repeated  writing  and  re- 
writing— and  yet  he  held  to  it,  clung  to  it,  and 
when  torn  from  it  by  sickness  he  returned  to 
it  in  health  with  the  fiercest  eagerness  of  the 
literary  aspirant.  Never  was  authorship  less 
of  a  trade  to  any  author,  though  he  was  a  com- 
petent business  man,  and  knew  how  to  make 
the  most  of  his  market.  To  write  stories  was 
a  passion  to  him,  and  he  was  as  much  a  slave 
to  it  when  he  was  beginning  the  story  which 
he  left  unfinished  at  his  death  as  he  had  been 
five-and-twenty  years  earlier,  before  fame  had 
come  to  him  or  fortune  was  within  his  grasp. 

Wilkie  had  many  good  stories,  and  he  told 
them  well.  His  style  was  quiet,  but  emphatic, 
precise,  and  perhaps  slow,  the  points  cumu- 
lative in  their  effect,  most  carefully  led  up  to, 
and  ending  always  in  complete  success.  The 
pistol  never  missed  fire  when  Wilkie  pulled  the 
trigger.  His  memory  was  strong,  and  his  store 
of  good  things  was  plentiful. 

326 


WILKIE   COLLINS 

Some  of  his  stories  concerned  his  own  novels 
and  their  readers,  and  I  recall  one  of  them 
that  relates  to  "  The  Woman  in  White."  Im- 
mediately after  the  production  of  that  book, 
when  all  England  was  admiring  the  arch- 
villainy  of  the  "Fosco,"  the  author  received 
a  letter  from  a  lady  who  has  since  figured  very 
largely  in  the  public  view.  She  congratulated 
him  upon  his  success  with  somewhat  icy  cheer, 
and  then  said :  "  But,  Mr.  Collins,  the  great 
failure  of  your  book  is  your  villain.  Excuse 
me  if  I  say  you  really  do  not  know  a  villain. 
Your  Count  Fosco  is  a  very  poor  one,  and  when 
next  you  want  a  character  of  that  description, 
I  trust  that  you  will  not  disdain  to  come  to  me. 
I  know  a  villain,  and  have  one  in  my  eye  at 
this  moment  that  would  far  eclipse  anything 
that  I  have  ever  read  of  in  books.  Don't  think 
that  I  am  drawing  upon  my  imagination.  The 
man  is  alive  and  constantly  under  my  gaze.  In 
fact,  he  is  my  own  husband."  The  lady  was 
the  wife  of  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton. 

Mention  of  "  The  Woman  in  AVhite "  re- 
minds me  of  a  story  which  I  may  or  may  not 
have  heard  from  Wilkie's  own  lips.  After  the 
story  had  been  written  and  the  time  had  come 
to  begin  its  serial  publication,  a  title  had  not 
yet  been  found.     A  story  could  not  be  pub- 

327 


MY    STOEY 

lislied  without  a  title,  but  neither  the  author 
nor  his  friends  could  hit  on  one  that  seemed 
suitable.  Dickens  had  been  appealed  to  and 
had  failed.  So  had  Forster,  who  was  prolific 
in  good  titles.  Wilkie  was  in  despair.  The  day 
was  approaching  when  the  story  must  begin 
in  All  the  Year  Round.  So  one  day  the  novel- 
ist took  himself  off  to  Broadstairs,  determined 
not  to  return  until  a  title  had  been  found.  He 
walked  for  hours  along  the  cliff  between  Kings- 
gate  and  what  is  called  Bleak  House;  he 
smoked  a  case  of  cigars,  and  all  to  no  purpose ; 
then,  vexed  and  much  worn  by  the  racking  of 
his  brains,  he  threw  himself  on  the  grass  as 
the  sun  went  down.  He  was  facing  the  North 
Foreland  Lighthouse,  and,  half  in  bitter  jest, 
half  unconsciously,  he  began  to  apostrophise 
it  thus ; 

"  You  are  ugly  and  stiff  and  awkward ;  you 
know  you  are  as  stiff  and  weird  as  my  white 
woman — white  woman — woman  in  white — the 
title,  by  Jove !  " 

It  was  done;  a  title  had  been  hit  upon,  and 
the  author  went  back  to  London  delighted. 

The  idea  of  the  white  woman  was  suggested 
by  a  letter  from  some  unknown  correspondent, 
asking  him  to  interest  himself  in  some  real  or 
supposed  wrongful  incarceration  in  a  lunatic 

328 


WILKIE    COLLINS 

asylum.  About  the  same  time  he  came  upon 
an  old  French  trial  (he  had  many  French 
"Newgate  Calendars"),  turning  upon  a  ques- 
tion of  substitution  of  persons,  and  so  it  struck 
him  that  a  substitution  effected  by  help  of  a 
lunatic  asylum  would  afford  a  good  central 
idea.  He  wrote  the  book  and  was  quite  ex- 
hausted at  the  end  of  it.  So  he  made  arrange- 
ments for  its  publication  in  library  form,  and 
went  away  for  a  long  holiday  in  a  place  at 
some  distance,  where  letters  could  not  reach 
him. 

When  he  returned  home  he  found  his  desk 
piled  moimtains  high  with  letters  from  cor- 
respondents, and  newspapers  containing  re- 
views. Also  he  found  his  mother  (he  was  still 
living  under  the  parental  roof)  in  great  dis- 
tress over  the  severity  with  which  the  book  had 
been  handled  by  the  press.  "  Well,"  he  said, 
"  let  us  see."  So  he  read  the  reviews  first. 
They  were  nearly  all  as  bad  as  it  was  possible 
for  the  good  critics  to  make  them.  Then  he 
read  the  letters,  and  they  brimmed  over  with 
eulogy. 

"  Now,"  thought  Wilkie,  "  this  teaches  me  a 
lesson.  These  letters  are  nearly  all  from  total 
strangers,  and  may  be  said  to  represent  in 
some    measure    the    opinion    of    the    general 

329 


MY    STORY 

public.  These  reviews  are  by  professional 
writers,  some  of  them  my  intimate  friends. 
Either  the  public  is  right  and  the  Press  is 
wrong,  or  the  Press  is  right  and  the  public 
is  wrong.  Time  will  tell.  If  the  public  turns 
out  to  be  right,  I  will  never  trust  the  Press 
again." 

Thus  he  waited  for  the  verdict  of  time,  and 
it  seemed  to  come  confidently  enough.  The  end 
of  it  was  that  Collins  lost  all  faith  in  review 
articles,  and  went  the  length  of  grievously  un- 
derestimating their  effect  on  public  opinion. 

His  life  was  almost  that  of  a  hermit.  Dur- 
ing the  last  two  or  three  years  he  went  out 
very  little — rarely  or  never  to  the  theatre,  and 
only  one  or  twice  to  a  dinner.  With  all  the 
surroundings  of  an  invalid,  he  had  quite  a 
morbid  terror  of  being  written  about  as  a  dy- 
ing man.  "  My  heart  is  not  affected,"  he  would 
say,  "  and  there  is  nothing  amiss  with  me  but 
what  they  call  stomachic  nervousness." 

One  day,  toward  the  beginning  of  1888,  I 
called  upon  him  in  great  excitement  about  a 
difference  I  had  just  had  with  a  friend  with 
whom  I  was  trying  to  collaborate.  I  wished 
him  to  adjudicate  in  the  dispute,  and  he  cor- 
dially undertook  to  do  so.  "  State  the  diffi- 
culty,"  he   said,    and   I   stated   it   with   much 

330 


WILKIE    COLLINS 

fulness.  He  stopped  me  again  and  again — 
repeated,  questioned,  and  commented.  Two 
hours  went  by  like  ten  minutes.  We  were 
sitting  in  Wilkie's  workshop,  with  proofs  of 
his  current  work  everywhere  about  us.  The 
point  was  a  knotty  one,  and  a  serious  issue 
seemed  involved  in  it.  Wilkie  was  much 
worried. 

"  My  brain  is  not  very  clear,"  he  said  once 
or  twice,  taking  a  turn  across  the  room.  Pres- 
ently, and  as  if  by  a  sudden  impulse,  he  opened 
a  cabinet,  and  took  out  a  wine-glass  and  what 
seemed  to  be  a  bottle  of  medicine.  "  I'm  going 
to  show  you  one  of  the  secrets  of  my  prison- 
house,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  and  then  he 
poured  from  the  bottle  a  full  wine  -  glass 
of  a  liquid  resembling  port  wine.  Do  you 
see  that?"  he  asked.  "It's  laudanum."  And 
straightway  he  drank  it  off. 

"Good  heavens,  Wilkie  Collins!"  I  said, 
"how  long  have  you  taken  that  drug?" 

"  Twenty  years,"  he  answered.  . 

"  More  than  once  a  day  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  much  more.  Don't  be  alarmed.  Re- 
member that  De  Quincey  used  to  drink  lauda- 
num out  of  a  jug." 

Then  he  told  me  a  storj',  too  long  to  repeat, 
of  how  a  man-servant  of  his  own  had  killed 

331 


MY    STORY 

himself  by  taking  less  than  half  of  one  of  his 
doses. 

"  Why  do  you  take  it  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  To  stimulate  the  brain  and  steady  the 
nerves." 

"  And  you  think  it  does  that?  " 

"  Undoubtedly,"  and  laughing  a  little  at  my 
consternation,  he  turned  back  to  the  difficult 
subject  I  had  come  to  discuss.  "  I'll  see  it 
clearer  now.    Let  us  begin  again,"  he  said. 

"  Wait,"  I  said.  "  You  say,  my  dear  Wilkie, 
that  the  habit  of  taking  laudanum  stimulates 
your  brain  and  steadies  your  nerves.  Has  it 
the  same  effect  on  other  people?  " 

"  It  had  on  Bulwer  Lytton,"  answered  Collins. 
"  He  told  me  so  himself." 

"Well,  then,  Wilkie  Collins,"  I  said,  "you 
know  how  much  I  suffer  from  nervous  exhaus- 
tion.   Do  you  advise  me  to  use  this  drug?  " 

He  paused,  changed  colour  slightly,  and  then 
said  quietly,  "  No." 

The  last  time  I  saw  Collins  he  was  in  great 
spirits  and  full  of  the  "  Reminiscences  "  that  he 
intended  to  write.  He  talked  of  all  his  old 
friends  with  animation,  the  friends  of  his  youth, 
"all  gone,  the  old,  familiar  faces";  and  there 
was  less  than  usual  of  the  dull  undertone  of  sad- 
ness that  had  so  often  before  conveyed  the  idea 

332 


WILKIE    COLLINS 

of  a  man  who  felt  that  he  had  strutted  too  long 
on  his  little  stage.  He  enjoyed  his  wine  and 
some  old  brandy  that  came  after  it,  and  a  couple 
of  delicious  little  cigars  of  a  new  brand  which 
he  loudly  recommended.  The  more  serious 
questions  of  literature  and  morality  were  all 
banished,  and  yarn  followed  yam.  I  can  only 
remember  a  single  sad  note  in  his  conversation, 
and  it  was  ominous.  He  was  talking  of  Dickens, 
and  I  think  he  said  he  had  been  engaged  to  visit 
at  Gad's  Hill  on  the  very  day  that  Dickens  died. 

A  few  days  later  Wilkie  Collins  wrote  invit- 
ing me  to  lunch,  but  naming  no  particular  day. 
I  was  to  go  what  day  I  liked,  only  remembering 
to  send  a  telegram  two  or  three  hours  in  ad- 
vance. So  one  Sunday  morning  I  wrote  a  let- 
ter telling  him  that  I  meant  to  visit  him  the 
following  day,  and  asking  him  for  a  telegram 
to  say  if  the  time  would  do.  Instead  of  Wilkie's 
telegram  there  came  a  message  from  his  affec- 
tionate adopted  daughter,  saying  that  on  the 
previous  morning  he  had  been  struck  down 
with  paralysis. 

He  may  have  had  his  weaknesses — I  know  of 
very  few.  He  may  have  had  his  sins — I  never 
heard  tell  of  any.  He  was  loyal  and  brave  and 
sweet  and  unselfish.  He  had  none  of  the  vices 
of  the  literary  character,  none,  at  least,  that 

333 


MY    STORY 

ever  revealed  themselves  to  me.  In  the  cruel 
struggle  for  livelihood  that  depends  on  fame  he 
injured  no  man.  He  lived  his  own  life,  and  was 
beloved  by  his  own  people. 

I  have  quoted  from  Wilkie  Collins's  letters 
several  passages  which  show  that  he  could  be  a 
severe  if  wholesome  critic,  and  now  in  conclu- 
sion I  will  not  allow  myself  to  be  restrained  by 
any  fear  of  a  charge  of  immodesty  from  quot- 
ing one  passage  which  shows  how  splendidly 
generous  he  could  also  be: 

"  You  have  written  a  remarkable  work  of 
fiction — a  powerful  and  pathetic  story — the 
characters  vividly  conceived,  and  set  in  motion 
with  a  master  hand.  Within  the  limits  of  a  let- 
ter I  cannot  quote  a  tenth  part  of  the  passages 
which  have  seized  on  my  interest  and  admira- 
tion. As  one  example  among  many  others  I 
should  like  to  quote,  let  me  mention  the  chap- 
ters that  describe  the  fishermen  taking  the  dead 
body  out  to  sea  in  the  hope  of  concealing  the 
murder.  The  motives  ascribed  to  the  men  and 
the  manner  in  which  they  express  themselves 
show  a  knowledge  of  human  nature  which 
places  you  among  the  masters  of  our  craft,  and 
a  superiority  to  temptations  to  conventional 
treatment  which  no  words  can  praise  too  highly. 
For  a  long  time  past  I  have  read  nothing  in 
.       .  334 


WILKIE    COLLINS 

contemporary^  fiction  tliat  approaches  wliat  you 
have  done  liere.  I  have  read  the  chapters  twice, 
and  if  I  know  anything  about  our  art,  I  am  sure 
of  what  I  say." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  how  much  good 
this  letter  did  me  when  I  read  it  first.  Wilkie 
Collins  was  then  at  the  height  of  his  fame  and 
prosperity  and  his  correspondent  was  a  be- 
ginner, living  in  two  small  rooms  in  the  roof  on 
the  fourth  floor  of  New  Court,  Lincoln's  Inn. 


CHAPTER    VIII 


MY    FIRST   PLAY 


NOTWITHSTANDING  the  generous  con- 
fidence of  my  friends,  coupled,  as  I  fear 
it  was  with  my  own  opinion,  that  under 
favourable  conditions  I  could  write  a  play,  I 
made  no  serious  attempt  to  do  so  until  dramatic 
pirates  began  to  appropriate  my  novels.  Then 
I  remembered  Wilson  Barrett's  request,  and 
sent  him  my  first  Manx  novel,  thinking  the  sub- 
ject and  chief  character  might  suit  him.  He  an- 
swered that  both  seemed  promising,  and  asked 
me  to  see  him  immediately,  for  he  had  reached 
a  crisis  in  his  fortunes  when  a  change  in  his  pro- 
gramme was  necessary. 

It  was  early  spring,  I  remember,  one  of  the 
worst  of  the  second  winters  that  come  to  our 
English  climate,  and  I  was  staying  with  my  peo- 
ple in  Liverpool,  but  with  the  utmost  eagerness 
I  packed  my  bag  and  set  off  for  London,  hardly 
knowing  yet  where  the  drama  lay  in  my  narrative 
story,  and  seeing  many  perplexing  difficulties. 

336 


I 


MY    FIRST    PLAY 

A  few  miles  out  of  Liverpool,  travelling  by 
the  Midland  route,  I  was  overtaken  by  a  very 
dense  fog,  and  at  Derby,  to  my  great  chagrin,  I 
was  compelled  to  leave  the  train;  but  what 
seemed  to  my  impatience  to  be  the  most  vexa- 
tious accident  proved  to  be  the  most  fortunate 
circumstance.  The  fog,  which  enveloped  al- 
most the  whole  of  England,  lasted  eight  days; 
I  sought  refuge  from  it  among  the  hoar  frost  in 
the  heights  of  Dove  Dale,  and  while  waiting  in 
the  old  Isaac  Walton  Inn  (alone  there,  and 
thrown  entirely  on  my  thoughts)  for  the  clouds 
to  lift  that  cut  me  off  from  London,  the  clouds 
in  my  brain  were  also  dissipated,  and  I  thought 
my  play  for  all  practical  purposes  was  pro- 
duced. 

Then  with  a  full  scenario  I  completed  my 
journey  and  found  Barrett  more  than  content. 
We  struck  and  signed  a  bargain  straight  away, 
I  remember,  two  guineas  a  performance  for  me 
until  my  royalties  reached  eight  hundred  pounds, 
when  my  interest  was  to  end,  and  though  I  had 
not  a  penny  piece  of  this  money  in  my  pocket, 
and  everything  depended  upon  the  opinion  of 
the  public,  and  my  fortime  was  like  a  glistening 
bubble  in  the  air,  I  came  awav  from  our  inter- 
view  with  a  sense  of  possessing  more  wealth 
than  I  had  ever  yet  known  to  be  in  the  world. 

337 


MY    STORY 

Not  only  was  my  money  not  yet  earned,  but 
my  play  was  not  yet  written,  and  toil  and  pain 
and  sleepless  nights  there  were  to  go  through 
before  it  got  itself  done.  And  even  when  I 
came  to  an  end  and  thought  my  curtain  had 
fallen  for  good,  I  realised  from  the  sharp  criti- 
cism of  my  colleague  that  I  had  been  working 
in  a  medium  that  was  new  to  me,  and  not  all 
the  supernatural  wisdom  I  had  won  in  earlier 
days  as  a  dramatic  critic  had  taught  me  the 
hundred  and  one  technical  tricks  that  are  neces- 
sary to  success  on  the  stage. 

What  Barrett  himself  did  to  make  my  first 
play  a  practical  effort  it  is  unnecessary  to  say, 
but  sure  I  am  that  without  his  knowledge  of  the 
"  ropes  "  of  the  theatre  the  dramatic  instinct  on 
which  my  friend  Blackmore  had  counted  to  pro- 
duce "  a  grand  and  moving  drama  "  would  have 
gone  for  nothing,  and,  conscious  of  this,  I  in- 
sisted on  coupling  Barrett's  name  with  mine 
when  the  play  came  to  be  produced. 

Before  that,  of  course,  there  were  the  re- 
hearsals, and  though  in  my  ignorance  of  stage 
management  I  took  little  or  no  part  in  them,  I 
remember  as  a  unique  experience  the  first  mo- 
ment when,  stumbling  through  the  pall  of  dark- 
ness which  lies  over  "  the  front  of  the  house  " 
in  daytime,  I  first  heard  my  own  lines  spoken 

338 


MY    FIRST    PLAY 

by  an  actor  on  the  stage.  It  was  almost  as  if 
something  of  myself  had  in  a  dream,  by  a  kind 
of  hypnotic  transfer,  passed  into  the  mouth  of 
somebody  else. 

By  the  time  of  the  first  public  performance 
this  elusive  sensation  had  naturally  passed 
away,  but  then  came  another  emotion  equally 
new  to  me  and  yet  more  thrilling — the  emotion 
created  by  the  tears,  the  laughter,  the  applause, 
and,  above  all,  the  silence  of  the  audience.  It 
is  just  once  in  a  man's  life  that  he  produces  his 
first  play,  and  perhaps  he  may  be  pardoned  if, 
after  the  lapse  of  years,  he  puts  the  experience 
out  of  proportion. 

I  think  it  was  a  great  first  night  in  some  re- 
spects. The  audience  was  great,  for  in  all  the 
years  since  I  have  never  seen  so  many  really 
distinguished  people  in  one  place.  The  acting 
was  great,  too,  and  the  reception  was  generous 
and  almost  tumultuous.  I  remember  as  some- 
thing seen  in  a  sort  of  delirious  trance,  through 
a  mist  of  blinding  tears,  that  at  the  fall  of  the 
curtain  the  whole  audience  was  on  its  feet,  and 
that  when  Barrett  led  me  in  front  of  the  curtain 
there  was  a  roar  that  dazed  and  stunned  me. 

It  was  not  until  an  hour  or  two  afterward 
that  I  came  to  myself  in  some  measure,  and 
then,  with  my  friend  Tirebuck,  who  had  come  up 

339 


MY    STORY 

from  the  country  to  share  my  great  experience, 
I  was  tramping  np  and  down  Oxford  Street  in 
the  early  morning,  and  making  the  silent  thor- 
oughfare ring  with  peals  of  foolish  laughter. 
Being  too  poor  to  think  of  a  room  at  an  hotel, 
we  were  to  sleep  at  a  little  shabby  boarding- 
house  in  Bloomsbury,  and  having  suddenly  re- 
membered that  we  had  not  eaten  anything  since 
breakfast,  we  were  searching  for  a  restaurant 
that  would  be  open  late  enough  to  give  us  sup- 
per. We  found  one  at  length  in  the  form  of  a 
smoking  coffee-stall  at  the  corner  of  Berners 
Street,  and  there  we  ate  roasted  potatoes  with 
a  pinch  of  salt,  and  then  home  to  our  dingy  lodg- 
ings like  creatures  walking  on  the  stars. 

Next  morning  the  London  newspapers  con- 
tained many  eloquent  columns  on  the  advent  of 
"  the  new  dramatist,"  with  glowing  predictions 
which  I  fear  have  never  been  fulfilled. 

The  success,  such  as  it  was,  of  my  first  play 
revived  an  earh^  friendship  with  Henry  Irving, 
whom  I  had  known  during  my  days  in  Liver- 
pool. Ho  had  lieen  touring  in  America  when 
my  Manx  novel  was  published,  and  saying  to 
himself,  "  There's  a  character  in  that  book  [the 
Bishop]  which  might  be  suitable  for  me,"  he 
had  resolved  to  propose  a  play  to  me  on  his  re- 
turn to  England.     But  finding  when  he  came 

340 


MY    FIRST   PLAY 

home  that  the  play  was  already  the  property  of 
another  actor,  he  suggested  that  I  should  try  to 
do  something  else  for  him. 

I  did  try.  During  many  years  thereafter  I 
spent  time  and  energy  and  some  imagination  in 
an  effort  to  fit  Irving  with  a  part,  and  the 
pigeon-holes  of  my  study  are  still  heavy  with 
sketches  and  drafts  and  scenarios  of  dramas 
which  either  he  or  I  or  our  constant  friend  and 
colleague,  Bram  Stoker  (to  whose  loyal  com- 
radeship we  both  owed  so  much),  thought  pos- 
sible for  the  Lyceum  Theatre.  I  remember  that 
most  of  our  subjects  dealt  with  the  super- 
natural, and  that  the  "  "Wandering  Jew,"  the 
"  Flying  Dutchman,"  and  the  "  Demon  Lover  " 
were  themes  around  which  our  imagination  con- 
stantly revolved.  But  in  spite  of  the  utmost 
sincerity  on  both  sides,  our  efforts  came  to  noth- 
ing, and  I  think  this  result  was  perhaps  due  to 
something  more  serious  than  the  limitations  of 
my  own  powers. 

The  truth  is  that,  great  actor  as  Irving  was, 
the  dominating  element  of  his  personality  was 
for  many  years  a  hampering  difficulty  in  the 
way  of  popular  success.  AVhen  in  my  boyhood 
I  knew  him  first,  he  was  a  young  fellow  of  thirty, 
very  bright,  very  joyous,  not  very  studious,  not 
very  intellectual,  full  of  animal  vigour,  never 
23  341 


MY    STOEY 

resting,  never  pausing,  always  rushing  about, 
and  hardly  ever  seen  to  go  upstairs  at  less  than 
three  steps  at  a  time.  At  the  end  of  his  life  he 
was  a  grave  and  rather  sad  old  man,  very  sol- 
emn, distinctly  intellectual,  and  with  a  never- 
failing  sense  of  personal  dignity.  Between  his 
earlier  and  his  later  days  he  had  done  some- 
thing which  I  have  never  known  to  be  done  by 
anybody  else — he  had  created  a  character  and 
assumed  it  for  himself. 

Just  as  an  actor  might  create  a  character  for 
the  stage,  or  a  novelist  for  a  novel,  so  Irving 
had  created  a  character  for  his  own  use  in  real 
life.  It  was  a  character  of  singular  nobility  and 
distinction,  but  a  difficult  character,  too,  not 
easy  to  put  on,  and  having  little  in  common  with 
the  outstanding  traits  of  his  original  self — a 
silent,  reposeful,  rather  subtle,  slightly  humor- 
ous, detached,  and  almost  isolated  personality, 
with  a  sharp  tongue,  but  a  sunny  smile  and  cer- 
tain gleams  of  the  deepest  tenderness — in  short, 
a  compound  of  Voltaire  and  Cardinal  Manning. 

There  was  nothing  artificial  or  theatrical  in 
Irving's  assumption  of  this  character,  which 
grew  on  him  and  became  his  own  and  gave  value 
to  every  act  of  his  later  life ;  but  all  the  same  it 
stood  in  the  way  of  his  success  in  a  profession 
wherein  the  first  necessity  is  that  the  actor 

342 


MY   FIRST   PLxVY 

should  be  able  to  sink  his  own  individuality  and 
get  into  the  skin  of  somebody  else. 

No  man  could  sink  a  personality  like  that  of 
Henry  Irving,  and  toward  the  end  of  his  life, 
with  the  ever-increasing  domination  of  his  own 
character  and  the  limitation  of  choice  which  al- 
ways comes  with  advancing  years,  it  was  only 
possible  for  him  to  play  parts  that  contained 
something  of  himself.  He  was  painfully  con- 
scious of  this  for  a  considerable  time,  and  there- 
fore it  was  with  brightening  eyes  that  he 
brought  to  my  room  one  day  the  typewritten 
copy  of  a  play  on  the  subject  of  Mohammed. 

"  It's  not  right,"  he  said,  "  but  it's  the  right 
subject.    See  if  you  can  do  it  over  again." 

I  spent  months  on  "  Mohammed,"  and  think 
it  was  by  much  the  best  of  my  dramatic  efforts ; 
but  immediately  it  was  made  known  that  Irving 
intended  to  put  the  prophet  of  Islam  on  the 
stage,  a  protest  came  from  the  Indian  Moslems, 
and  the  office  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain  inter- 
vened. This  was  a  deep  disappointment  to 
Irving  himself,  for  the  dusky  son  of  the  desert 
was  a  part  that  might  have  suited  him  to  the 
ground,  and  to  me  it  looked  like  an  overwhelm- 
ing disaster,  slamming  the  door  on  the  efforts 
of  years,  but  the  story  of  this  incident  has  been 
told  by  Bram  Stoker  with  such  truth  and  such 

343 


MY    STORY 

sympathy  in  liis  tender  and  affectionate  remi- 
niscences of  our  friend  that  I  hesitate  to  say 
more. 

I  have  produced  many  plays  since  then,  but  I 
have  never  again  attempted  to  fit  my  subject  to 
the  personality  of  any  actor,  not  even  in  the 
case  of  a  personality  so  pronounced  as  that  of 
Mr.  Tree,  and  I  have  never  tried  again  to  write 
independent  drama,  being  content  with  such 
chances  as  the  material  in  my  novels  affords  for 
treatment  in  the  art  of  the  stage. 

That  is  a  noble  and  beautiful  art,  but  it  is 
not  one  which  ought  to  be  practised,  as  I  fear 
I  have  practised  it,  with  the  left  hand,  while  the 
right  hand  has  been  otherwise  engaged.  It  asks 
all  a  man's  time  and  more  than  all  his  energy  if 
it  is  to  yield  the  best  results.  Those  results  are 
broader  now  than  they  were  when  I  began  to 
write,  and  they  include  a  large  moral  influ- 
ence. 

In  my  earliest  days  in  London  they  produced 
on  the  stage  a  play  of  Tennyson's,  called  "  The 
Promise  of  May."  The  play" was  not  a  good  one, 
but  its  failure  on  its  first  night  was  not  so  much 
due  to  its  artistic  defects  as  to  its  daring  treat- 
ment of  moral  questions.  It  presented  the  con- 
ventional seducer  of  innocence,  not  as  a  ruffian 
who  ought  to  be  kicked,  but  as  a  thinker  who  had 

344 


' 


MY   FIRST    PLAY 

even  something  to  say  for  himself.  This  was 
grotesque  to  the  English  public  at  that  time,  and 
consequently  they  howled  and  howled.  I  alone, 
or  almost  alone,  with  my  friend  Watts-Dunton, 
cheered  and  cheered.  It  was  not  that  we  cared 
much  for  the  scoundrel  on  the  stage,  but  that 
we  claimed  the  right  of  the  drama  to  deal  with 
moral  problems. 

That  night,  in  my  lodgings  in  Clement's  Inn, 
I  wrote  to  Tennyson.  I  meant  him  to  receive 
my  letter  with  what  I  knew  must  be  the  un- 
favourable newspapers  next  morning,  and  the 
following  day's  post  brought  me  the  poet's 
reply : 

"  I  should  feel  myself  very  ungrateful  if  I 
did  not  write  my  thanks  for  your  kind  and 
sympathetic  letter. 

"  I  meant  Edgar  to  be  a  shallow  enough  the- 
orist. I  never  could  have  thought  that  he 
would  have  been  taken  for  an  *  ordinary  free- 
thinker.' 

"  The  British  drama  must  be  in  a  low  state 
indeed,  if,  as  certain  dramatic  critics  have 
lately  told  us,  none  of  the  great  moral  and 
social  questions  of  the  time  ought  to  be  touched 
upon  in  a  modern  play. 

"  A.  Tennyson." 
345 


MY    STORY 

Tliat  was  only  a  score  of  years  ago,  and  what 
have  those  years  witnessed?  They  have  wit- 
nessed the  rise  of  Ibsen  in  England.  Think 
what  you  like  of  Ibsen,  consider  him  a  morbid, 
unhealthy,  middle-class  sceptic,  if  you  will,  but 
you  must  needs  admit  that  he  has  once  for  all 
brought  back  the  living  nioral  questions  to  the 
stage. 

It  is  sometimes  said  that  the  public,  espe- 
cially the  i^laygoing  public,  is  a  stubborn  pa- 
tron, very  narrow  in  its  sympathies  and  lim- 
ited in  its  tastes.  I  am  not  in  the  least  of  that 
opinion.  So  far  as  I  can  see,  there  is  only  one 
thing  the  public  demands  and  will  not  do  with- 
out, whether  in  drama  or  novel,  and  that  is 
human  nature.  It  says  to  the  author:  "Amuse 
me !  Comfort  me !  Thrill  me !  Sustain  me !  " 
But  it  leaves  him  to  please  himself  how  he  does 
it.  He  can  sing  what  song  he  pleases.  All  it 
asks  is,  that  the  song  shall  be  good,  and  that  he 
shall  sing  it  well  enough.  Otherwise  it  may  be 
a  song  of  love,  or  a  ditty  of  the  forecastle.  And 
if  the  song  says  something  that  has  a  real  rela- 
tion to  life,  so  much  the  better. 

I  cannot  conclude  this  chajoter,  with  its  few 
and  imperfect  notes  of  my  friendship  with 
Henry  Irving,  without  recalling  two  quaint  if 
rather  grotesque  tributes  to  his  power  as  an 

346 


MY    FIRST    PLAY 

actor  which  came  from  my  father  and  my 
mother  in  those  early  days  of  his  career  when 
I  knew  him  jSrst. 

My  father  had  heen  born  and  brought  up 
under  conditions  as  little  favourable  as  any- 
thing could  be  to  the  appreciation  of  dramatic 
talent — on  the  edge  of  that  bleak  coast  at  Bal- 
laugh  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  with  its  tiny  church, 
now  tumbling  out  of  the  perpendicular,  where 
he  was  baptised  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago  at 
the  little  font  by  the  runic  cross ;  with  its  group 
of  whitewashed  farm-buildings  lying  close  and 
low  like  a  herd  of  white  cattle  in  a  storm ;  with 
its  broad  stretch  of  gray  sea  and  its  rare  and 
far  view  of  the  lowering  Scotch  and  Irish  hills. 
Though  he  broke  away  from  these  conditions 
in  early  manhood  he  carried  the  stark  spirit  of 
them  with  him  to  Liverpool,  and  becoming  for 
a  time  a  Methodist  of  the  most  primitive  type, 
a  class-leader,  and  I  think  a  local  preacher,  as 
well  as  a  politician  of  the  grimmest  radicalism, 
his  views  of  life  were  fairly  representative  of 
what  is  known,  not  too  wisely,  as  the  Non-con- 
formist conscience. 

Toward  the  theatre  and  all  its  doings  he 
held  an  attitude  of  determined  hostility,  and 
how  it  came  to  pass  that  after  sixty  years  of 
age  he  went  with  me  to  see  Irving  play  "  Ilam- 

347 


MY    STORY 

let "  I  cannot  remember  or  explain  except  in 
the  light  of  the  fact  that  the  young  actor  of 
whom  everybody  was  talking  had  somehow  be- 
come a  friend  of  his  son.  But  I  recall  the  even- 
ing as  if  it  were  yesterday,  and  the  extraordi- 
nary effect  of  a  stage  play  on  a  mind  that  had 
taught  itself  to  regard  all  imagined  things  as 
wicked  make-believe.  There  was  first  the  un- 
comfortable sense,  only  too  plainly  indicated  in 
his  face,  that  he  was  in  a  theatre,  and  if  death 
came  to  him  there  what  would  he  have  to  say 
for  himself? — and  then  there  was  an  ever- 
increasing  consciousness  that  he  was  listening 
to  serious  things  seriously  spoken.  Of  Shake- 
speare he  knew  nothing  but  the  name,  and  that, 
I  am  afraid,  was  not  entirely  a  badge  of  honour, 
but  the  dramatist  was  speedily  forgotten  in  his 
theme.  I  remember  that  more  than  once  in  the 
philosophical  passages  my  father  said  "  Hear, 
hear,"  and  that  at  the  triumphant  moments  he 
looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  say,  "  Glory  be  to 
God ! "  But  the  crowning  tribute  to  the  play 
and  the  player  came  at  the  end,  when,  as  we 
walked  home  together,  I  asked  him  how  he 
liked  Irving,  and  he  answered: 

"  What  he  said  was  good,  very  good,  it  was 
grand;  but,  after  all,  it  was  not  so  much  what 
he  said  as  the  wonderful  way  he  said  it." 

348 


MY   FIRST    PLAY 

Considering  tliat  the  play  was  "  TTamlet,"  I 
doubt  if  such  another  tribute  to  the  power  of  an 
actor  can  anywhere  be  found. 

My  mother  was  born  and  brought  up  under 
conditions  equally  unfavourable  to  the  appreci- 
ation of  dramatic  talent,  and  there  was  the  fur- 
ther difficulty  in  her  case  that,  unlike  my  father, 
she  was,  and  is  (for  at  more  than  eighty  years 
of  age  she  is  still  with  us),  though  generous  to  a 
fault,  utterly  incapable  of  enthusiasm.  As  far 
as  I  can  remember  she  had  never  seen  a  stage 
play  until  she  saw  Irving  in,  I  think,  "  Louis 
XI,"  when  he  played  it  first  in  the  best  days  of 
his  manhood.  In  a  few  minutes  the  illusion  of 
the  drama  had  completely  carried  her  away, 
and  it  was  the  same  to  her  as  if  she  were  look- 
ing on  a  scene  in  life.  More  than  once  it  seemed 
to  surprise  her  that  the  people  on  the  stage  did 
not  see  through  the  King's  hypocrisy  and  wick- 
edness; and  when  the  curtain  fell  on  the  first 
act  and  we  asked  her  what  she  thought  of  the 
actor,  she  said : 

"  I  think  he  acts  his  part  very  well  indeed — 
considering  he  is  such  a  very  old  man." 


CHAPTER    IX 

MY    FIRST    VISITS   TO    AMERICA 

I  HAVE  made  four  visits  to  America,  but 
two  of  them  were  occupied  entirely  by  busi- 
ness interests,  and  only  the  first  and  second 
had  any  real  relation  to  my  life  as  an  author. 
To  meet  the  unknown  friends  whom  my  books 
had  won  for  me  across  the  Atlantic  was  always 
a  joyful,  sometimes  an  embarrassing,  and  occa- 
sionally an  exacting  experience.  A  malady 
which  might  well  be  known  by  the  name  of 
American  hospitality  awaits  every  Englishman 
who  has  spoken  to  the  hearts  of  the  people  of 
the  United  States. 

I  know  nothing  like  it  in  any  other  part  of 
the  world,  and  when  I  read  of  the  reception  of 
Dickens  and  Thackeray  in  America,  and  see 
how  the  cities  of  the  States  seemed  to  stand 
still  in  order  to  give  to  two  writers  of  great 
books  the  welcome  which  is  reserved  in  other 
countries  for  soldiers  and  statesmen,  I  am  as 
much  perplexed  as  proud.    But  I  know  by  per- 

350 


MY    FIRST   VISITS    TO    AMERICA 

sonal  experience  that  the  hospitality  of  America 
is  equal  to  an  effort  more  unaccountable  than 
that,  and  I  remember  with  gratitude  and  emo- 
tion which  will  last  as  long  as  my  life  the  kind- 
ness that  was  shown  to  me  in  the  generous 
country  across  the  Atlantic  when  the  great  Eng- 
lish nation  that  is  American  began  to  interest 
itself,  through  my  earlier  books,  in  the  little 
English  nation  that  is  Manx. 

It  would  not  become  me  to  dwell  upon  that, 
further  than  to  recognise  and  acknowledge  it, 
but  it  may  be  allowed  to  me  to  speak  of  certain 
aspects  of  American  life  which  come  within  the 
purview  of  a  man  of  letters. 

How  did  I  find  the  interviewer  in  America? 
Just  as  I  have  found  him  everywhere — good, 
bad,  and  indifferent.  Sometimes  the  American 
interviewer  is  a  perfectly  honest  man,  who  aims 
only  at  setting  down  what  you  say  in  all  truth 
and  simplicity ;  and  sometimes  he  is  a  pert  per- 
son, who  cares  a  vast  deal  more  about  what  he 
says  himself.  As  might  be  expected,  the  per- 
sonal descriptions  of  the  lady  interviewer  are 
embarrassingly  precise.  The  colour  of  your 
hair  and  eyes  and  the  pattern  of  your  clothes 
are  facts  of  the  first  importance.  Hardly  any 
of  the  interviewers,  male  or  female,  write  short- 
hand, and  as  a  consequence  the  visitor  talks  the 

351 


MY   STOEY 

idiom  of  the  reporter.  In  certain  interviews  I 
found  myself  saying,  "  It  makes  me  tired,"  and 
"  It  tickles  me  to  death." 

Several  imaginary  interviews  with  me  were 
published  during  my  visits  to  America.  In  one 
of  these  I  gave  a  modest  description  of  my  own 
head,  saying  the  "upper  part"  resembled 
Shakespeare's,  and  the  "lower  part"  resem- 
bled Christ's!  Flamboyant  fictions  like  these 
are,  I  observe,  the  tit-bits  oftenest  quoted  in 
England  by  journals  which  most  affect  to  look 
down  on  American  journalism.  But  whatever 
the  interviewer  may  be,  it  is  folly  of  the  Eng- 
lishman in  America  to  attempt  to  escape  from 
him.  As  a  general  statement,  I  think  it  would 
be  true  that,  whether  you  allow  yourself  to  be 
interviewed  or  refuse  to  allow  yourself  to  be  in- 
terviewed, you  are  equally  certain  to  regret  it. 
But  that  has  been  my  experience  in  England 
also. 

During  the  run  of  one  of  my  plays  in  New 
York  there  was  a  sad  and  terrible  incident.  A 
young  actress  died  of  heart  disease  in  the  course 
of  a  performance.  I  chanced  to  be  in  the  thea- 
tre at  the  moment  of  the  death,  and  I  was  still 
suffering  from  the  shock  when  I  returned  to  the 
hotel.  Between  midnight  and  one  in  the  morn- 
ing a  reporter  sent  up  his  card.    He  must  see 

352 


MY    FIRST    VISITS    TO    AMERICA 

me  at  once,  if  only  for  a  moment.    I  saw  him  at 
the  door  of  my  bedroom. 

"  It's  about  this  poor  young  lady,"  he  said. 

"WelH" 

"She  played  Polly  Love,  didn't  she?" 

"  She  did." 

"  The  part  is  a  very  exciting  one,  isn't  it  ? " 

"  There  are  scenes  of  some  excitement." 

"  They  probably  contributed  to  her  death, 
didn't  they?" 

"  I  see  no  reason  to  think  so,  and  it  would  be 
extremely  painful  to  accept  that  idea.  Besides, 
heart  disease  was  hereditary  in  the  lady's 
family." 

"  Just  so !  By  the  way,  Mr.  Caine,  I  haven't 
read  your  book,  but  one  of  my  colleagues  tells 
me  that  Polly  Love  dies  suddenly  in  the  novel. 
Now,  don't  you  think  that  is  an  extraordinary 
coincidence? " 

"  Perhaps  it  is,  but  for  mercy's  sake  don't 
say  so,  at  least  for  me.  The  Polly  of  the  novel 
commits  suicide.  To  bring  together  the  real 
and  the  fictitious  at  a  solemn  and  sacred  mo- 
ment like  this  would  be  a  shocking  and  shameful 
outrage.  Don't,  I  beg  of  you,  make  me  say  any- 
thing about  that." 

"  Oh,  no,  no !    Good  night !  " 

"Good  night!" 

353 


MY    STORY 

Next  morning  my  interviewer's  newspaper 
published  a  full  and  particular  account  of  my 
opinion  that  the  poor  lady's  death  had  been  due 
in  great  part  to  the  zeal  with  which  she  threw 
herself  into  her  part,  and  a  detailed  comparison 
of  the  strange  and  dramatic  coincidence  of  the 
sudden  and  startling  deaths  of  the  Polly  of  the 
novel  and  the  Polly  of  the  stage. 

Another  story  of  the  American  interviewer. 
A  murderer  named  Holmes  had  been  tried  and 
condemned  in  Philadelphia,  and  was  awaiting 
his  execution.  One  day  two  journalists  from  a 
"  yellow "  journal  called  on  me  at  the  hotel, 
bringing  a  roll  of  manuscript  written  by  the 
prisoner. 

"  This  is  Holmes's  account  of  his  crimes,"  said 
one  of  the  men ;  "  he  has  sold  it  to  our  editor  on 
condition  that  you  review  it," 

"  I  won't  touch  it,"  I  answered. 

"  Don't  say  that,  Mr.  Caine.  We'll  leave  it 
with  you,  and  call  for  your  answer  in  an  hour." 

They  put  the  manuscript  on  a  sideboard  and 
went  away.  Half  an  hour  later  another  man 
came  up.  I  thought  he  looked  both  nervous  and 
audacious. 

"  Our  editor  has  sent  for  Holmes's  story,  and 
to  know  if  you  have  decided  to  review  it,"  he 
said. 

354 


MY    FIRST    VISITS    TO    AMERICA 

"  No,  there  it  is  still ;  take  it  away  with  you," 
I  answered.  Then,  glancing  up  quickly,  I  saw 
the  man  reaching  out  his  hand  for  the  manu- 
script. There  was  a  greedy  look  in  his  eye 
which  made  me  uneasy. 

"  Wait,"  I  said.  "  I  am  an  old  journalist  my- 
self, you  know,  and  I  think  it  would  be  better 
form  to  give  the  thing  back  to  the  men  who 
brought  it." 

"  Well,  if  you  prefer  to,"  said  the  fellow, 
and  he  edged  out.  In  half  an  hour  more  the 
two  earlier  visitors  returned. 

"  I  hope  you've  decided  to  do  that  review," 
said  one  of  the  gentlemen. 

"  No,  I've  not,"  I  replied,  "  and  I've  told  your 
editor  so  already  by  the  messenger  he  sent  a 
little  while  ago." 

Then  the  men  looked  at  me  in  blank  aston- 
ishment. 

"  What  messenger?  "  they  asked. 

I  described  the  man  who  had  come  for  the 
.  manuscript.  They  stared  into  each  other's 
faces. 

"Good  !     It's  that  fellow  on  the 

. ! " 

A  journalist  on  a  rival  "  yellow  "  journal,  get- 
ting wind  of  their  errand,  had  tried  to  "  scoop  '* 
both  the  murderer's  manuscript  and  my  review. 

355 


MY    STORY 

A  story  of  the  journalistic  photographer. 
The  interviewer  is  frequently  accompanied  by 
an  unattached  photographer,  whose  business  it 
is  to  take  snap  shots  of  his  subjects  in  char- 
acteristic and,  if  possible,  ridiculous  attitudes, 
at  unwary  moments.  One  of  the  photographic 
"  hawks "  came  aboard  the  Campania  in  the 
customs  boat  early  in  the  morning  of  my  arrival 
at  New  York.  For  some  time  he  "mooched" 
about  the  ship,  without  doing  anything  which 
attracted  mv  attention.  Then,  as  we  steamed 
to  the  ship's  berth,  his  writing  confrere  came  up 
to  me.  The  sun  was  shining,  we  were  standing 
on  the  promenade  deck,  under  the  shade  of  the 
hurricane  deck,  and  he  drew  me  to  the  ship's 
side,  while  he  pointed  out  his  own  lodgings  on 
the  fourteenth  floor  of  a  lofty  sky-scraper.  I 
didn't  feel  an  absorbing  interest  in  his  story, 
and  I  was  rather  at  a  loss  to  know  why  he  told 
it  to  me.  A  few  minutes  afterward  I  heard  him 
telling  the  same  story  to  my  fellow-passenger. 
Lord  Brassey,  and  a  little  later  to  Mr.  Godkin, 
then  editor  of  the  Evening  Post.  It  began  to 
strike  me  as  funny  that  this  person  should  be 
so  zealously  circulating  such  valuable  informa- 
tion about  himself,  when  all  at  once  I  became 
aware  that  the  snap-shot  man  was  busy  behind 
him.    The  promenade  deck  was  in  shadow,  and 

356 


MY    FIRST    VISITS    TO    AMERICA 

this  was  the  piece  of  collusion  by  which  that 
artful  pair  of  hawks  got  their  subjects  into 
the  sun. 

"  You  did  him  pretty  well,"  I  said  to  the 
photographer,  when  he  had  finished  with  Mr. 
Godkin. 

"  Oh,  he's  not  the  first  I've  done — see !  "  and 
he  showed  me  the  list  of  his  morning's  "  tak- 
ings." The  fiend  had  got  three  separate  snap 
shots  of  myself ! 

The  worst  fault  of  American  journalism — its 
undue  love  of  sensationalism — is  fostered  by  a 
bad  professional  practice,  that  of  employing 
what  are  called  "  space  writers."  These  per- 
sons are  unattached  journalists,  who  are  paid 
by  space  on  the  copy  that  is  accepted.  Their 
business  is  to  hunt  up  out-of-the-way  facts.  The 
more  startling  the  fact,  the  more  acceptable  it  is, 
and  of  two  space  writers  dealing  with  the  same 
incident,  that  one  is  employed  who  brings  in  the 
more  astounding  stor}\  This  is  a  setting  of 
premium  on  sensation,  on  personality,  on  every 
form  of  falseness  that  can  take  the  colour  of 
fact. 

Apparently  there  is  no  libel  law  in  America 

strong  enough  and  swift  enough  to  cope  with 

the  doings  of  the  space  writer,    ^^^len  a  New 

York  newspaper  published  a  false  accusation  of 

24  357 


MY    STORY 

mj^self,  and  followed  it  up  by  a  still  more  false 
apology,  and  I  contemplated  an  action  at  law, 
Mr.  Goldwin  Smith  said,  "You  might  as  well 
take  action  against  a  mosquito." 

While  I  was  at  Washington  I  discussed  this 
aspect  of  the  lower  American  journalism  with 
John  Hay,  then  Secretary  of  State. 

"  No  libel  law,  however  rigorous,  will  meet  the 
case,"  he  said.  "  There's  only  one  thing  that 
will  meet  it." 

"What's  that?"  I  asked. 

"  A  horsewhip,"  he  answered. 

It  would  be  quite  wrong,  however,  to  talk  of 
the  interviewer  as  if  he  covered  the  whole  field 
of  American  journalism.  The  extraordinary 
vigour  of  the  every-day  work  of  the  American 
journalist  is  what  first  impresses  you.  He  is 
always  "  on  the  nail."  To-day's  subject  is  to- 
day's need,  and  whether  it  is  the  fate  of  the 
Philippines  or  how  to  sweep  the  snow  out  of 
the  streets,  the  journalist  tackles  it  for  all  it  is 
worth.  Then  the  general  enterprise  of  the 
American  Press  is  beyond  comparison  greater 
than  that  of  almost  every  other  press  in  the 
world.  Not  even  the  great  London  newspa- 
pers, with  their  correspondents  in  every  capi- 
tal, can  surpass  the  amazing  enterprise  of  the 
best  papers  in  America.     To  appreciate  this 

358 


MY    FIRST    VISITS    TO    AMERICA 

one  has  only  to  reflect  that  by  reason  of  dis- 
tance the  material  of  the  American  paper 
costs  incomparably  more,  and  that  nearly  every 
day's  paper  contains  columns  of  cabled  news. 

Then  the  Sunday  papers  of  America,  what- 
ever we  may  think  of  them  as  literary  products, 
are  examples  of  journalistic  enterprise  without 
parallel  in  the  world.  Outside  London  there  is 
nothing  published,  whether  in  Paris,  Berlin, 
Vienna,  or  Rome,  which  for  interest  or  quality 
or  yet  bulk  bears  a  moment's  comparison  with 
the  best  American  Sunday  papers.  The  imag- 
ination shown  in  the  mapping  out  and  con^struc- 
tion  of  a  typical  American  newspaper  to  meet 
the  needs  of  the  largest  numbers  of  readers,  is 
another  striking  characteristic.  Therefore,  when 
we  gibe,  as  it  is  so  easy  to  do,  at  the  unconscien- 
tious and  even  vulgar  aspects  of  some  American 
journalism,  we  should  remember  its  good  quali- 
ties, which  are  neither  few  nor  hard  to  find. 

One  salient  fact,  however,  about  the  Amer- 
ican newspaper  is  that  its  first  aim  is  to  de- 
serve its  name.  It  is  above  everything  else  a 
paper  intended  to  provide  news.  A  policy  it 
may  have,  and  it  may  sometimes  advocate  the 
interests  of  a  party,  but  some  of  the  best  and 
most  popular  American  newspapers  appear  to 
have  neither  policy  nor  party. 

359 


MY   STORY 

"  Do  you  conduct  the  policy  of  your  paper 
from  Paris  f  "  I  said  to  the  proprietor  of  a  well- 
known  American  journal. 

"  My  paper  has  no  policy,"  the  proprietor  an- 
swered ;  "  its  business  is  to  give  the  people  news, 
not  to  tell  them  what  they  are  to  think." 

"  But  isn't  that  rather  opposed  to  journalistic 
traditions  I  "  I  asked. 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  the  traditions,"  was 
the  reply.  "  I  employ  a  man  at  two,  three,  four, 
or  five  thousand  dollars  to  edit  this,  that,  or  the 
other  section  of  my  paper,  and  I  should  think 
it  a  pretty  cheeky  thing  if  he  undertook  to  pre- 
side over  the  policy  of  the  country.  His  busi- 
ness is  to  record  its  doings." 

But  the  attitude  of  the  American  public 
toward  the  American  newspaper  would  in  any 
case  be  one  of  complete  independence.  On  the 
British  side  of  the  ocean  we  are  apt  to  believe 
what  we  see  in  the  journals.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  ocean  they  betray  no  such  infirmity.  The 
newspapers  are  so  many,  the  competition  be- 
tween them  is  so  keen,  their  methods  are  so 
manifest,  that  nobody  regards  them  with  the 
reverence  which  the  mystery  enshrouding  the 
anonymity  of  English  journalism  still  perpetu- 
ates among  ourselves. 

In  like  manner  the  personalities  of  American 

360 


< 


g 


c 

s 

o 

a: 


Eh 


n 


MY   FIRST   VISITS    TO   AMERICA 

journalism  are  fenced  by  tlie  attitude  of  Amer- 
ican readers.  They  take  their  spiciest  dishes 
with  a  proper  grain  of  salt.  Hence  it  is  neces- 
sary to  read  the  American  newspaper  with 
American  eyes;  seen  in  that  light  the  jour- 
nalism of  America  is  neither  so  sensational  nor 
so  flagrant  as  English  readers  suppose.  For 
the  rest,  it  would  seem  to  me  that  the  inde- 
pendence of  the  American  mind  toward  the 
Press  of  the  country  is  a  most  wholesome  and 
hopeful  sign.  The  American  public  are  con- 
stantly reversing  the  verdicts  of  their  professed 
guides  to  public  opinion.  A  play  or  a  book 
which  has  been  the  victim  of  a  general  onslaught 
in  the  newspapers  is  frequently  the  idol  of  the 
hour. 

"  In  the  old  days,  after  a  new  production,"  a 
theatrical  manager  said  to  me,  "  I  used  to  be 
fool  enough  to  sit  up  till  six  in  the  morning  to 
see  what  the  newspapers  had  to  say." 

"  And  now?  "  I  asked. 

"  Now,  if  the  audience  is  right,  I  go  to  bed 
at  twelve,"  he  answered. 

I  went  to  America  on  the  first  occasion  partly 
as  the  delegate  of  the  English  Society  of  Au- 
thors and  partly  as  the  informal  representative 
of  the  Colonial  Office  to  prevail  upon  the  Cana- 
dian ministers  to  withdraw  the  more  objection- 

361 


MY    STORY 

able  of  the  provisions  of  a  Copyright  Bill  which 
seemed  to  conflict  with  the  Imperial  Act,  and 
this  mission  brought  me  into  active  relations 
with  American  publishers  and  enabled  me  to 
realise  that  the  making  of  American  copyright, 
for  which  Dickens  and  Thackeray  pleaded  in 
vain,  had  done  more  than  secure  justice  for  the 
English  author — it  had  created  the  American 
author  as  a  professional  man  of  letters.  Litera- 
ture as  a  profession  was  for  the  first  time  be- 
ginning to  live,  and  it  is  no  matter  of  surprise 
to  me  that  in  the  few  years  that  have  inter- 
vened American  books  have  ousted  English 
books  in  the  favour  of  the  American  people. 

But  art  has  no  nationality,  and  I  was  never 
made  conscious  for  a  moment  that  a  novelist 
from  the  United  Kingdom  was  an  alien  in  the 
United  States.  On  the  contrary,  I  was  always 
made  to  feel  that  there  is  no  country  in  the 
world  so  good  as  America  for  an  Englishman 
to  travel  in.  Of  course  I  know  how  much  I  may 
be  influenced  by  personal  feelings,  and  how 
many  of  my  opinions  may  be  aifected  by  the 
accident  of  my  own  reception.  If  that  is  so,  it 
is  only  as  it  ought  to  be.  On  four  visits  under 
varying  circumstances,  America  was  good  to 
me,  and  it  is  right  that  I  should  praise  the 
bridge  I  passed  over. 

362 


MY   FIRST    VISITS    TO    AMERICA 

I  love  America  and  the  Americans.  I  love 
America  because  it  is  big,  and  because  its  big- 
ness is  constantly  impressing  the  imagination 
and  stimulating  the  heart.  I  love  its  people  be- 
cause they  are  free  with  a  freedom  which  the 
rest  of  the  world  takes  as  by  stealth,  and  they 
claim  openly  as  their  right.  I  love  them  be- 
cause they  are  the  most  industrious,  earnest, 
active,  and  ingenious  people  on  the  earth;  be- 
cause they  are  the  most  moral,  religious,  and, 
above  all,  the  most  sober  people  in  the  world; 
because,  in  spite  of  all  shallow  judgments  of 
superficial  observers,  they  are  the  most  child- 
like in  their  national  character,  the  easiest  to 
move  to  laughter,  the  readiest  to  be  touched  to 
tears,  the  most  absolutely  true  in  their  impulses, 
and  the  most  generous  in  their  applause.  I  love 
the  men  of  America  because  their  bearing 
toward  the  women  is  the  finest  chivalry  I  have 
yet  seen  anywhere,  and  I  love  the  women  be- 
cause they  can  preserve  an  unquestioned  purity 
with  a  frank  and  natural  manner,  and  a  fine  in- 
dependence of  sex.  I  love  the  constitution  of 
America  because  its  freedom  is  the  freest  I 
know  of,  because  it  has  broken  away  from  all 
effete  superstitions  of  authority,  whether  in 
Church  or  State,  and  has  left  the  rest  of  the 
world  in  the  pitiful  shadows  of  both  follies, 

363 


MY    STORY 

to    toil    after    it    by    more    than    a    hundred 
years. 

And  if  these  are  qualities  which  have  their 
defects,  I  go  the  length  of  loving  some  of  the 
failings  of  American  life  and  character  as  well. 
I  love  the  brusqueness  of  speech  and  the  free- 
dom of  manners  which  imply  that  Jack  is  as 
good  as  his  master,  and  sometimes  a  good  deal 
better.  In  this  connection  I  can  tell  a  story 
of  a  good  and  loyal,  though  rather  embarrassing 
friend  of  mine  who  is  a  conductor  on  a  Broad- 
way electric  car.  He  is  about  twenty  years  of 
age,  and  he  has  a  frank,  open  face,  with  bright 
eyes  and  a  laughing  mouth.  AYlien  I  met  him 
first  he  was  standing  on  the  tail-board  of  the 
car  as  I  was  leaping  onto  it. 

"  Will  this  car  take  me  to  Fifty-sixth  Street?  " 
I  asked. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  looked  me  over  from 
head  to  foot. 

"Will  it?"  I  repeated. 

Instead  of  replying  to  my  question,  he  asked 
another. 

"Are  you  Hall  Caine?" 

"Yes— will  it?"  I  asked. 

Again  he  did  not  reply,  but,  smiling  from  ear 
to  ear,  and  holding  out  a  grimy  hand,  he  said: 

"  Shake ! " 

364 


CHAPTEE   X 


THE    LITERARY    LIFE 


I  HAVE  reached  the  beginning  of  my  last 
chapter  without  making  more  than  casual 
references  to  my  earnings  as  a  man  of  let- 
ters, and  I  do  not  now  intend  to  enter  into  any 
detailed  confidences  on  that  subject.  It  will  be 
well  within  the  truth  to  say  that  money  has 
never  at  any  time  been  an  aim  in  my  life,  and 
that  I  have  never  allowed  myself  to  think  of  it 
first  in  regard  to  any  single  thing  I  have  ever 
done.  If  money  has  come  to  me  it  has  certainly 
not  been  by  "  first  intention,"  and  if  there  is 
anything  that  hurts  me  in  the  published  letters 
of  certain  great  writers  who  are  among  the 
gods  of  my  idolatry  it  is  the  presence  of  the 
thought  that  such  and  such  work  represents 
such  and  such  sum. 

But,  thinking  it  may  cheer  the  beginner  who 
is  trudging  through  the  dark  ways  of  the  liter- 
ary life,  knee-deep  in  disappointments,  to  see 

365 


MY    STORY 

how  stiff  a  struggle  it  was  to  me,  I  will  gladly 
show  how  modest  were  my  earnings  during 
many  of  my  earlier  years. 

I  had  been  working  on  the  Mercury  for  some 
time  at  about  two  hundred  pounds  a  year,  eked 
out  by  perhaps  a  hundred  more  from  the  Athe- 
nceum  and  the  Academy,  when  I  began  to  write 
my  first  novel.  Soon  I  found  myself  crippled 
by  want  of  leisure,  and  was  compelled  to  realise 
that  I  must  either  abandon  my  hope  of  becom- 
ing a  novelist  or  curtail  my  energies,  and  there- 
fore my  earnings,  as  a  journalist.  It  was  a  seri- 
ous crisis,  for,  taking  my  heart  in  both  hands, 
I  had  married  in  the  meantime,  and  had  other 
responsibilities.  But,  after  serious  deliberation 
with  my  wife,  hardly  knowing  where  we  were  or 
what  leap  in  the  dark  we  were  making,  with  in- 
finite misgiving  and  most  natural,  if  ludicrous, 
nervousness,  I  wrote  to  my  editor  in  Liverpool 
asking  him — to  reduce  my  salary! 

Lovell  appears  to  have  been  flabbergasted  by 
my  letter.  He  replied  that  he  was  frequently 
requested  to  increase  a  salary,  but  he  had  never 
been  asked  to  reduce  one,  and  he  was  at  a  loss 
to  know  if  I  was  well  and  if  I  could  be  serious. 
Evidently  my  good  friend  thought  I  must  at 
least  be  suffering  from  an  acute  attack  of  con- 
science; so  I  replied  that  so  far  as  I  knew  I 

366 


THE    LITERARY    LIFE 

was  in  perfectly  good  health,  that  I  was  very 
much  in  earnest,  and  that  my  request  was  not 
prompted  by  any  Quixotic  dreams,  but  was 
based  on  the  most  rational  economic  expecta- 
tion of  earning  more  in  the  long  run  and  becom- 
ing a  novelist  as  well. 

Lovell  answered  that  he  would  come  to  see 
me  on  the  subject.  He  did  so.  My  salary  was 
reduced  by  half,  and  I  wrote  and  published  my 
first  novel.  Then  my  modest  success  as  an  au- 
thor emboldened  me  to  think  that  I  could  live 
without  journalism  at  all,  and  having  ceased  to 
write  on  the  Athenceum  and  Academy  from  a 
conviction  that  the  man  who  wrote  books  had  no 
right  to  review  books,  I  resigned  the  remaining 
half  of  my  position  on  the  Mercury. 

Like  the  good  fellow  he  was,  Lovell  would  not 
at  first  hear  of  my  resignation,  and  I  trust  I  do 
not  reveal  a  fact  which  will  shock  the  propri- 
etors of  the  paper,  among  whom  is  my  friend 
and  colleague,  Egerton  Castle,  when  I  say  that 
during  the  last  year  of  my  connection  with  the 
Mercury  I  received  my  half  salary  without 
writing,  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  a  single 
line. 

Meantime,  however,  I  was  casting  my  bread 
on  the  waters  with  rather  reckless  prodigality, 
for  it  was  not  immediately  that  my  fiction  made 

367 


MY    STORY 

up  to  me  for  the  loss  of  journalism.  I  had  been 
paid  a  hundred  pounds  for  my  first  story  as  a 
serial,  but  when  I  came  to  publish  the  book  all 
I  could  get  was  seventy-five  pounds  for  the  copy- 
i-ight  out-and-out.  For  my  second  book  I  fared 
only  a  little  better,  and  for  my  third,  my  first 
Manx  story,  "  The  Deemster,"  which  contained 
the  work  of  a  laborious  year  plus  the  Manx  lore 
acquired  during  eighteen  years  of  my  youth,  I 
received  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  in  all. 
I  dare  say  it  was  as  much  as  I  had  a  right  to 
expect,  and  I  am  very  far  from  wishful  (what- 
ever my  children  may  be)  to  chew  the  cud  of  my 
old  bargain  with  my  first  publisher,  whose  three 
books  are,  I  am  happy  to  see,  as  much  alive  now 
as  they  were  when  we  published  them  a  quarter 
of  a  century  ago ;  but  the  literary  beginner  will 
please  observe  that  the  story  of  my  struggles  is 
not  yet  told.  I  had  been  writing  for  ten  years, 
and  had  published  at  least  five  novels,  every  one 
of  them  considered  a  success,  before  I  had  made 
a  penny  beyond  what  was  necessary  to  meet  the 
most  modest  of  daily  needs.  Since  then,  so  far 
as  I  am  able  to  judge,  taking  the  earnings  of 
plays  and  books  together,  it  is  not  improbable 
that  as  much  money  has  come  to  me  (though  so 
little  has  remained)  as  ever  came  to  any  one, 
not  now  living,  who  followed  the  profession  of 

368 


< 


«5 

o 


z 


THE    LITERARY    LIFE 

the  pen ;  but  I  see  no  reason  to  think  that  either 
in  bad  fortune  or  good  there  has  been  anything 
exceptional  in  my  experience  of  the  literary  life. 

If  I  have  had  more  wages  than  most  of  my 
fellow-writers,  I  think  I  have  also  had  less,  and 
assuredly  I  have  never  thought  that  money  was 
the  only  currency  in  which  my  profession  paid 
me.  Of  all  work  I  think  literary  work  is  the  last 
that  ought  to  be  measured  against  the  money 
one  gets  for  it.  Much  or  little,  the  money  has 
no  relation  to  the  expenditure  of  one's  self,  one's 
soul,  which  writing,  if  it  comes  from  the  hearf, 
requires.  The  consciousness  of  having  done  a 
good  piece  of  work  is  the  reward  to  be  reck- 
oned with  first. 

Trying,  however  feebly,  to  follow  literature 
in  that  spirit,  I  have  found  the  profession  of  let- 
ters a  serious  pursuit,  of  which  in  no  country 
and  in  no  company  have  I  had  reason  to  be 
ashamed.  It  has  demanded  all  my  powers,  fired 
all  my  enthusiasm,  developed  my  sympathies, 
enlarged  my  friendships,  touched,  amused, 
soothed,  and  comforted  me.  If  it  has  been  hard 
work,  it  has  also  been  a  constant  inspiration, 
and  I  would  not  change  it  even  now  for  all  the 
glory  and  more  than  all  the  emoluments  of  the 
best-paid  and  most  illustrious  profession  in  the 
world. 

369 


MY    STORY 

It  is  indeed  a  j^rofession  in  which  the  struggle 
for  life  is  always  keen  and  often  bitter,  and  I 
must  have  written  this  book  ill  if,  in  spite  of  any 
optimism,  that  fact  has  not  emerged.  Open  to 
everybody,  having  no  tests,  no  diplomas,  issuing 
no  credentials,  and  being  practically  without  or- 
ganisation, the  literary  profession  is  perhaps 
the  easiest  of  all  for  the  rank  and  file  to  enter, 
and  the  most  difficult  for  them  to  rise  in.  On 
the  other  hand,  it  is  a  mansion  that  has  many 
outer  courts,  all  opening  into  the  central  cham- 
ber. There  are  hundreds  of  newspapers  and 
magazines  in  the  United  Kingdom  waiting  day 
by  day  or  week  by  week  to  be  filled,  and  the 
hunger  for  "  copy "  can  never  be  satisfied. 
Every  morning  millions  of  people  at  their 
breakfast  tables  are  saying,  "  Interest  me !  En- 
tertain me !  Startle  me !  "  and  every  night  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  in  the  theatres  are  asking 
to  be  amused  or  moved.  For  the  writer  whose 
grip  is  strong,  whose  romance  is  really  roman- 
tic, whose  pathos  is  pathetic,  whose  power  is 
powerful,  there  is  an  ever-increasing  clamour. 
He  must  know  his  work  and  have  lived  and  per- 
haps suffered,  but  there  is  no  question  about  the 
extent  of  his  appeal.  "Whether  he  is  journalist 
or  novelist  or  dramatist,  whether  he  raises  his 
curtain  on  a  tragedy  or  a  farce,  in  high  life  or 

370 


THE    LITERARY    LIFE 

low  life,  on  the  land  or  on  the  sea,  an  immense 
audience  is  always  waiting  to  welcome  him. 

It  is  true  that  in  the  profession  of  letters  a 
man's  vogue  is  apt  to  be  brief,  but  brevity  is  a 
condition  which  attaches  itself  to  great  success 
in  nearly  all  professions,  and  long  life  in  liter- 
ature, as  in  law  and  medicine,  is  only  to  him 
who  can  grow  with  the  growing  years  and  live 
up  to  the  last  hour  of  his  time.  If  a  man  cannot 
do  this,  he  must  not  complain  that  after  he  has 
had  his  day  a  new  generation  should  be  knock- 
ing at  the  door. 

It  is  true,  too,  that  in  the  profession  of  let- 
ters some  of  the  sweetness  of  success  is  likely 
to  be  drained  away  by  jealousy  and  envj,  as 
well  as  by  the  operation  of  natural  laws  that 
have  little  or  no  relation  to  bad  passions  of  any 
sort.  The  literary  man  must  make  up  his  mind 
to  criticism;  he  must  recognise  the  certainty 
that  the  worst  of  it  will  always  come  from  his 
own  class,  often  from  his  own  juniors,  some- 
times from  those  who  find  him  where  they  them- 
selves would  be,  and  generally  anonymously. 
This  last  is  a  condition  peculiar  to  literature, 
but  perhaps  it  is  not  harder  to  bear  than  that  of 
the  politician  who  gets  his  criticism  full  in  the 
face  from  the  opposite  benches  in  Parliament, 
or  that  of  the  lawyer,  who  takes  it  in  open  snub- 

371 


MY    STORY 

bings  from  a  judge,  or  that  of  the  parson,  who 
gets  it  in  wild  tornadoes  at  his  Easter  vestry. 
At  least  it  leaves  the  author  at  liberty  to  ignore 
criticism  if  he  has  a  mind  to  do  so,  and  thus 
spares  him  the  loss  of  self-respect,  which  too 
frequently  comes  of  fighting  one's  adversary, 
even  when  one  beats  him. 

When  two  of  my  literary  friends  were  quar- 
relling in  their  attempt  to  collaborate,  one  of 
them  said : 

"  But  see  what  insulting  letters  you  send 
me !  "    Whereupon  the  other  replied : 

"  You  should  see  the  letters  I  don't  send  you, 
though ! " 

I  think  of  that  answer  with  a  certain  satisfac- 
tion when  I  look  at  the  letters,  often  very  in- 
temperate and  indiscreet,  which  I  have  sent  to 
the  newspapers  in  reply  to  my  own  critics,  and 
at  the  same  time  remember  the  letters  I  have 
kept  to  myself.  And  if  an  author  who  has  not 
always  "  recked  his  own  rede  "  may  offer  ad- 
vice to  the  literary  beginner  who  is  tempted  to 
reply  to  criticism,  however  unjust  or  apparently 
injurious,  I  will  say  that,  inasmuch  as  few  men 
have  ever  gained  by  combativeness,  it  is  at  once 
the  easiest  and  most  effective  course  to  leave 
your  adverse  critics  to  themselves. 

Of  all  the  incidents  in  literary  history,  the 

372 


THE    LITERARY    LIFE 

most  pitiful,  I  think,  is  that  of  Gogol,  the  father 
of  Russian  fiction,  going  about  in  his  last  days 
from  country  house  to  country  house  with  a 
carpet-bag  full  of  adverse  notices  of  his  great 
novel,  "  Dead  Souls,"  reading  them  again  and 
again,  exhibiting  them  to  his  friends,  complain- 
ing of  them,  railing  against  them,  permitting 
them  to  suck  his  life-blood  like  so  many  literary 
leeches,  until  they  killed  him  in  his  misery  and 
shame.  The  shocking  waste  of  Gogol's  valuable 
life  becomes  hideously  apparent  when  one  says 
to  one's  self,  "  '  Dead  Souls '  is  here  still,  but 
where  are  the  adverse  notices,  and,  in  the  name 
of  Heaven,  what  were  they?" 

There  is  only  one  writer  who  can  really  in- 
jure any  author,  and  that  writer  is  himself.  If 
his  work  is  bad,  it  will  die  of  the  seeds  of  disso- 
lution it  carries  within  it,  but  if  it  is  good,  it  will 
live,  and  long  before  the  little  turmoils  of  crit- 
ical condemnation  have  passed  into  the  limbo  of 
fatuities,  the  public  will  stand  abashed  and  won- 
dering at  censure  so  stupid  and  so  unaccount- 
able.   He  that  hath  the  bride  is  the  bridegroom. 

The  beginner's  experience,  however,  will  not 
be  like  mine  if  he  does  not  find  that  among  his 
critics  are  some  whose  wise  counsel,  as  well  as 
generous  praise,  have  encouraged,  sustained, 
stimulated,  and  even  inspired  him.  Many  of 
25  373 


MY    STORY 

my  warmest  friends'  have  been  won  for  me  from 
the  critics  of  my  books,  and  when  I  think  of 
what  Charles  A.  Cooper,  the  late  editor  of  the 
Scotsman,  did  for  me  in  my  earlier  years  of 
novel-writing,  I  am  ready  to  forgive  and  to  for- 
get any  hard  word  that  any  of  his  fellow- 
journalists  may  have  written  and  2^ublished 
against  me. 

And  this  leads  me  to  say  that  the  literary  life 
has  joys  which,  so  far  as  I  know,  belong  to  no 
other  profession,  and  I  count  among  the  chief 
of  them  the  tributes  that  come  from  the  readers 
of  one's  books.  I  can  hardly  suppose  that  my 
experience  in  this  regard  has  not  been  shared 
by  my  brother  authors  when  I  say  that  during 
the  past  twenty  years  there  cannot  have  been 
a  day  on  which  I  have  not  received  letters, 
sometimes  manv  letters,  from  unknown  corre- 
spondents,  who  have  had  nothing  to  ask  or  gain 
in  writing  to  me.  The  sense  of  having,  how- 
ever unwittingly,  come  closer  to  some  of  them 
than  a  brother,  closer  than  a  sister,  sometimes 
as  close  as  their  inmost  soul,  has  been  one  of  the 
most  precious  rewards  of  the  literary  life,  and 
there  is  no  other  profession,  so  far  as  I  can  see, 
that  could  have  given  me  a  joy  so  true  and  last- 
ing as  that. 

.     Then  in  the  reckoning  of  one's  return  for  pro- 

374 


THE    LITERARY    LIFE 

ducing  books  I  count  the  delight  of  writing 
them.  I  remember  that  in  my  days  with  Ros- 
setti  there  was  a  story  of  how  William  Morris 
reproved  a  young  author  for  complaining  that 
his  book  had  brought  him  no  money. 

"  What  are  you  grumbling  alwut?  "  said  Mor- 
ris. *'  Didn't  the  work  do  you  good  and  make 
you  a  better  man?  Do  you  want  to  be  paid 
twice  over?  " 

But  the  writer  who  loves  his  work,  and  is  so 
happy  as  to  make  the  public  love  it  also,  is  paid 
over  and  over  again.  If  in  the  course  of  this 
book  I  have  dwelt  too  frequently  on  the  penal- 
ties of  literary  production,  it  is  partly  because 
I  have  always  worked  against  the  odds  of  health 
that  has  never  been  good,  and  of  a  temperament 
that  is  not  too  sanguine ;  but  let  me  leave  no  un- 
certainty that  in  my  view  the  delights  of  lit- 
erary work  far  outweigh  its  labour  and  pain. 

^Vhat  literary  work  is  to  the  literary  worker 
must  depend  largely  upon  what  the  man  is  him- 
self. To  Walter  Scott  it  was  a  perfect  fountain 
of  joy;  for  he  always  wrote  as  if  it  did  him 
good,  like  riding  and  swimming.  Dickens,  too, 
bubbled  and  boiled  with  the  delights  of  mere 
composition,  but  Flaubert  laboured  along  with 
a  strain  that  was  strong  and  continuous. 

No  matter  which  of  these  classes  of  creators 

375 


MY    STORY 

the  imaginative  writer  belongs  to,  sure  it  is  that 
if  he  is  to  stir  the  public  to  enthusiasm,  his  own 
enthusiasm  must  be  kindled  first.  And  this  en- 
thusiasm in  the  act  of  creation,  if  not  of  pro- 
duction, is  perhaps  the  highest  joy  of  the  liter- 
ary life.  Without  it  there  is  nothing  done  that 
is  worth  doing,  and  no  reward  that  is  worth 
fighting  for.  Oh,  that  one  could  keep  forever 
burning  the  fire  of  fusion,  the  central  glow  out 
of  whose  depths  all  creative  work  should  come ! 
But  no  one  knows  better  than  the  novelist  and 
dramatist  how  life  and  the  world,  and  even 
self-criticism  itself,  are  perpetually  quenching 
the  ardour  of  his  spirit. 

Here  again,  however,  I  see  in  the  literary  life 
a  wider  horizon  than  any  other  profession  ap- 
pears to  offer.  Whatever  a  man's  outlook  on 
the  world,  he  may  reproduce  it  in  literature  and 
be  sure  of  finding  a  public  that  sees  eye  to  eye 
with  him.  Does  he  see  life  as  a  comedy,  there 
are  multitudes  who  also  see  it  so ;  and  if  he  sees 
it  as  a  tragedy  or  as  a  cynical  farce  or  as  a 
parti-coloured  mixture  of  all  three,  there  are 
always  people  enough  to  look  through  his  lens. 
And  just  as  there  is  no  restriction  as  to  the  lit- 
erary man's  point  of  view,  so  there  is  no  limit 
to  his  subject.  He  may  pick  out  a  little  corner 
of  life  and  produce  a  local  picture,  or  he  may 

376 


THE    LITERARY    LIFE 

take  from  the  world's  mountain  tops  the  broad- 
est sweep  his  sight  can  reach.  If  he  has  any  of 
the  larger  consciousness  of  the  place  of  man  in 
the  universe,  he  may  develop  it,  for  there  is  no 
one  to  prevent  the  free  fruition  of  what  is  his 
own.  If  life  has  said  anything  to  him,  if  suffer- 
ing has  taken  him  down  into  the  deep  places  of 
human  experience,  he  can  make  his  work  re- 
volve about  the  highest  message  or  motive  his 
soul  can  reach,  for  there  is  nobody  to  disturb 
the  strength  and  dominance  of  his  first  inten- 
tion. In  the  broad  world  he  speaks  to  there 
are  people  to  hear  whatever  he  has  to  say,  and 
they  listen  to  him  in  numbers  large  or  small, 
according  as  he  addresses  himself  to  their 
needs.  I  know  of  no  other  profession  that  of- 
fers so  wide  a  range  for  the  exercise  of  varying 
talents  with  varying  temperaments,  and  there- 
fore none  in  which  success  of  some  kind  can  be 
reasonably  expected. 

If  I  may  further  glorify  my  own  calling,  as 
I  think  I  am  in  loyalty  free  to  do,  I  will  also 
say  that  of  all  professions  the  profession  of  let- 
ters has  the  largest  and  the  most  lasting  influ- 
ence. In  the  progress  of  the  nations  from  the 
barbaritv  of  statecraft,  I  see  no  force  that  is  so 
surely  making  for  the  peace  of  the  world  as  the 
force  of  education  whereby  the  great  national 

377 


MY    STORY 

literatures  are  becoming  one  literature.  I  may 
hate  and  loathe  the  Russian  Government,  and  in 
any  difference  it  may  have  with  the  government 
of  England  I  may  be  a  rabid  Englishman,  but 
when  I  open  the  books  of  Tolstoy  and  enter  with 
him  into  the  houses  of  the  moujiks,  and  live 
their  lives  and  share  their  joys  and  sorrows,  I 
love  the  Russian  people,  and  hate  the  thought 
that  my  country  can  ever  go  to  war  with 
them. 

And  while  the  range  and  the  power  of  the  lit- 
erary life  is  such  as  I  have  tried  to  describe,  I 
count  it  not  the  least  of  its  advantages  as  a 
profession  that  it  can  be  practised  everywhere, 
by  any  person,  and  by  either  of  the  sexes.  The 
man  of  letters  may  live  in  a  palace,  and  nobody 
thinks  the  better  of  his  work ;  or  he  may  live  in 
a  garret,  and  nobody  thinks  the  worse.  He  may 
write  in  town  or  in  the  country,  at  home  or 
abroad,  at  the  top  of  Helvellyn  or  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a  coal-mine,  and  the  matter  is  of  no 
moment  to  anybody  except  himself.  He  may 
plunge  into  the  turmoil  of  the  life  of  his  time, 
or  he  may  hold  aloof  from  the  "  momentary  mo- 
mentousness  "  of  passing  problems,  and  it  is  no- 
body's business  except  his  own.  Once  the  public 
has  pronounced  in  his  favour,  it  has  emanci- 
pated him  from  a  score  of  shackles  which  bind 

378 


THE   LITERARY   LIFE 

men  of  other  professions  to  time  and  place,  and 
his  freedom  is  the  freest  in  the  world. 

But  while  this  is  so,  it  is  also  true  that  the 
spirit  of  literature  is  very  jealous  of  the  condi- 
tions under  which  she  is  pursued,  and  very 
watchful  of  the  purpose  for  which  she  is  fol- 
lowed. Literature  is  a  mistress  that  will  not 
share  her  lover  with  any  rival,  and  if  she  is  to 
unveil  her  face  in  all  its  beauty,  it  can  only  be 
in  the  still  atmosphere  of  the  harem. 

When  I  think  of  the  ideal  life  for  the  man  of 
letters  I  have  to  dismiss  the  memory  of  the  lives 
of  the  great  men  of  my  own  branch  of  the  craft 
— Dickens  in  his  last  days,  dragging  his  poor 
dying  body  through  America,  while  he  gave 
public  readings  of  his  writings,  with  his  pulse 
at  117  and  his  temperature  at  102  degrees ;  and 
Walter  Scott  struggling  to  establish  a  family 
while  writing  abroad  to  preserve  his  health  and 
to  pay  his  creditors,  and  then  climbing  up  in 
the  carriage  as  he  drove  home  for  the  last  time 
to  catch  sight,  through  eyes  half  blind  with 
tears,  of  the  towers  of  Abbotsford. 

Instead  of  these  heart-breaking  records  of  the 
lives  of  great  writers,  I  love  to  think  of  the  life 
of  Wordsworth,  and  I  cannot  do  better  than  con- 
clude my  book  with  a  flashlight  picture  of  a 
literary  life  that  was  totally  unlike  the  tumultu- 

379 


MY    STORY 

OTIS  scrambling  of  my  own,  and  far  above  the 
tmsatisfied  ending  of  any  of  the  lives  I  have  yet 
described  in  these  pages,  being  so  calm,  so  sim- 
ple, so  noble,  and  so  right. 

Wordsworth  practised  the  literary  art  for 
something  like  sixty  years,  and  during  the 
greater  part  of  that  time  he  met  with  little  or 
no  encouragement.  His  first  works  were  re- 
ceived with  howls  of  derision,  and  on  the  ap- 
pearance of  one  of  his  last  a  great  critic  wrote, 
"  This  will  never  do."  All  the  same,  he  went  on 
writing,  never  questioning  his  poetic  vocation, 
never  murmuring  because  critical  applause  did 
not  come  to  him,  never  looking  for  the  wages 
of  popular  success.  He  was  always  poor,  and 
he  lived  the  life  of  a  dalesman,  first  in  a  cottage 
in  Grasmere,  and  afterward  in  a  modest  home 
at  Rydal.  Famous  men  of  letters  like  Scott  and 
Jeffrey  and  Christopher  North  came  to  see  him 
there,  drawn  by  his  greatness,  not  his  renown. 
At  long  intervals  he  visited  London,  and  three 
or  four  times  in  the  course  of  his  life  he  made 
thrifty  journeys  abroad. 

He  was  always  profoundly  interested  in  the 
groat  movements  of  the  world,  but  he  cared 
nothing  for  the  activities  of  the  passing  hour. 
The  life  he  lived,  as  he  once  said,  had  nothing 
in  common  with  Westminster  elections  and  Mrs. 

380 


THE    LITERARY   LIFE 

Such-a-One's  five  o'clock  teas.  Steadily,  stead- 
fastly, without  the  stimulus  of  applause  or  the 
impetus  of  pecuniary  success,  he  went  on  for 
nearly  fifty  years  giving  the  world  of  his  best. 

Then  the  nation,  which  had  paid  him  no 
homage  hitherto,  remembered  him  at  last.  It 
gave  to  his  poverty  a  small  paid  position,  and 
to  his  pride  the  rank  of  poet-laureate.  Once  in 
his  latest  days  he  came  up  to  Cambridge,  and 
the  audience  in  the  theatre  of  the  University 
rose  to  its  feet  and  shouted  its  welcome  in  a 
roar  of  cheers.  It  was  a  theatrical  climax  of 
infinite  pathos  that  he,  the  poor  country  com- 
missioner of  stamps,  who  had  lived  out  the  long 
tale  of  the  days  of  his  strength  in  obscurity, 
broken  by  derision,  with  labour  unbrightened 
by  reward,  had  come  into  the  heritage  of  his 
fame  when  he  was  feeble  and  white-headed  and 
old.  Yet  if  the  demonstration  was  grateful  even 
to  him  who  built  his  big  hopes  on  no  such  things, 
to  us,  after  all,  what  is  it  but  a  note  of  glorious 
discord  in  the  harmony  of  his  simple  life?  It 
was  like  hanging  a  mantle  of  silk  velvet  over  a 
coat  of  russet  cloth;  like  perching  a  crown  of 
bay-leaves  on  a  furrowed  forehead  honoured 
enough  by  the  snows  of  time. 

The  story  of  Wordsworth's  death  and  burial 
is  one  of  the  sweetest  in  literary  history.    For 

381 


MY   STORY 

more  than  a  year  tlie  poet  had  been  a  dying  man. 
In  the  late  autumn  of  1849,  when  William  John- 
son, the  author  of  a  brief  and  little-known 
memoir,  parted  from  him  at  nightfall  on  the 
bridge  that  crosses  the  Rotha,  Wordsworth 
took  his  hand  and  said: 

"  I  am  an  old  man,  nearly  fourscore,  and  per- 
haps may  not  live  to  see  you  again — farewell ! 
God  bless  you !  "  Then  his  drooping  figure  dis- 
appeared in  the  darkness. 

On  April  14,  1850,  in  the  cold,  bright  evening, 
he  went  out  of  his  house  for  the  last  time,  walk- 
ing as  far  as  the  cottage  by  the  quarry  at  the 
northern  end  of  the  lake,  sitting  there  on  a  stone 
by  the  roadside,  and  then  toiling  heavily  back 
with  much  pain  and  weakness,  and  going  early 
to  bed.  On  the  19th  it  was  known  that  no  hope 
was  left;  that  he  was  sinking  rapidly,  and  that 
the  end  was  near.  On  Saturday,  the  20th,  his 
son  John  asked  if  he  would  take  the  Sacrament, 
and  he  answered,  "  It  is  what  I  wanted."  On 
Tuesday  he  died. 

They  said  it  was  exactly  at  twelve  that  he 
passed  away,  and  that  a  cuckoo  clock  that  stood 
in  the  death-room  was  singing  the  hour  of  noon. 
The  day  was  fine  and  clear  and  wann,  the  sun 
came  out  at  intervals,  and  two  ladies,  friends 
of  the  poet's  family,  were  climbing  the  hills 

382 


Probably  the  Last  Puktuait  of  Tennyson. 


THE   LITERARY   LIFE 

above  the  house  and  looking  down  upon  it  and 
talking  sadly  of  the  event  expected,  when  sud- 
denlv  the  windows  were  closed  and  the  white 
blinds  drawn.  It  was  almost  as  if  they  had  wit- 
nessed from  those  heights  the  faring  forth  of 
the  great  soul  that  was  even  then  winging  its 
way  to  Heaven.  Thus  Wordsworth  died  in  his 
mountain  home,  with  its  long  seaward  gaze, 
amid  its  old  familiar  hills  and  above  its  sedgy 
lake,  on  April  23d,  a  day  already  written  in  gold 
in  literary  history  as  the  birthday  and  deathday 
of  Shakespeare. 

In  his  last  hour  he  was  surrounded  by  his 
family  only,  for  he  had  outlived  the  generation 
of  men  who  had  been  his  brethren  in  youth — 
Coleridge  and  Southey  and  Lamb ;  and  the  later 
generation  of  friends  whom  the  new  fame  of  the 
old  poet  had  won  for  him  were  far  away.  His 
strong  soul  had  supported  him  through  twenty 
years  of  ridicule  and  fifty  years  of  neglect;  it 
had  not  forsaken  him  through  his  poor  ten  years 
of  recognition,  adulation,  and  flattery;  and  he 
died  in  content,  in  peace,  and  without  pain, 
hardly  any  one  being  quite  aware  of  the  moment 
when  he  ceased  to  breathe.  The  same  day  his 
son  John  wrote  to  tell  Rogers,  his  son-in-law, 
Quillinan,  wrote  to  Crabbe  Robinson,  and  some- 
body else  wrote  to  Henry  Taylor.     There  was 

383 


MY    STORY 

not  a  note  of  mourning  in  the  letter  of  either 
and  hardly  a  word  of  grief.  Why  should  there 
have  been  ?  No  man  can  die  less  than  the  great 
poet  who  dies  when  his  work  is  done. 

They  buried  Wordsworth  on  Saturday,  April 
27th,  in  Grasmere  churchyard.  That  is  one  of 
the  sweetest  spots  in  all  the  world,  the  little 
dotted  plot  lying  low,  with  its  old  gray  church, 
in  the  arms  of  the, green  hills,  within  its  half- 
circular  road,  breasted  by  its  beautiful  river, 
and  shaded  by  its  spreading  yews.  The  poet's 
wife  was  present  at  the  funeral,  in  the  end  as  at 
the  beginning,  "  an  angel,  yet  a  woman,  too." 
She  was  very  old,  and  had  long  been  ailing,  and 
a  month  before,  when  some  one  on  the  road  had 
asked  about  her  health,  the  poet  had  answered : 
"  I  think  she  suffers  less  pain,  but  no  one  can 
tell,  for  she  never  complains." 

She  walked  after  the  coffin  between  her  two 
sons,  and  with  her  son-in-law  behind  her,  bowed 
and  feeble,  yet  bearing  herself  calmly.  Few  or 
none  had  been  invited  to  join  them,  but  the  little 
churchyard  was  more  than  half  filled  with  un- 
bidden mourners,  of  all  country  ranks  and  ages, 
chiefly- the  rude  statesmen  of  the  dale.  As  far 
as  I  can  see,  no  men  of  letters  were  there.  The 
grave  was  where  the  poet  himself  had  chosen  it 
when  he  selected  a  resting  place  for  poor,  rest- 

384 


THE    LITERARY    LIFE 

less  "  laal  Hartley  "  Coleridge,  and  then  turned 
to  the  sexton  and  said,  "  And  keep  this  other 
place  for  me." 

It  is  in  the  sweetest  corner  of  that  sweet  spot. 
A  gravel  path  goes  round  it,  and  the  low  wall 
of  the  churchyard  is  very  close  at  its  foot  and 
at  its  side.  When  the  day  dawns  it  is  the  first 
bed  in  the  dale  to  know  it,  and  being  out  of  the 
shadow  of  the  church,  it  is  the  last  to  parley 
with  the  setting  sun.  And  the  beautiful  river, 
the  Rotha,  which  babbles  and  laughs  before  it 
comes  to  this  corner  and  again  laughs  and  bab- 
bles beyond  it,  flows  deep  and  silent  and  with 
a  solemn  hush  as  it  goes  slowly  under  the  quiet 
place  of  the  poet's  rest. 

There  they  buried  Wordsworth  on  that  little 
edge  of  land  where  scarce  twenty  persons  could 
gather  without  crowding.  The  morning  was 
fine,  with  the  breath  of  summer  and  the  smile 
of  spring,  but  a  frosty  mist  had  rolled  down  in 
the  night,  and  over  the  hills  and  the  meadows 
and  the  church  roof  and  the  two  yew  trees  which 
the  poet  had  planted  when  he  buried  his  Dora, 
there  lay  a  soft,  gray,  hoary  bloom.  Along  the 
village  street  the  cries  of  the  children  were 
hushed,  and  the  anvil  of  the  smith  was  quiet,  but 
the  cattle  lowed  in  the  fields,  and  the  sheep 
bleated  on  the  fells,  and  the  water  slipped  down 

385 


MY    STORY 

the  ghylls,  and  all  nature  was  just  as  it  had  ever 
been  when  he  who  was  being  laid  away  in  the 
deep  repose  of  death  had  seen  and  loved  it. 

Such  was  the  death  and  burial  of  Words- 
worth, and  I  should  like  in  a  last  word  to  com- 
jDare  both  with  the  death  and  burial  of  another 
poet  of  something  like  the  same  magnitude  and 
genius — a  poet  who,  like  Wordsworth,  held  him- 
self in  personal  seclusion  throughout  his  long 
life,  but  was  not  allowed  to  be  laid  at  rest  in 
the  simplicity  which  he  loved.  A  new  order  of 
things  had  arisen  in  a  few  years  between 
Wordsworth  and  Tennyson,  and  perhaps  it  was 
natural  that  the  sweet  oblivion  of  a  peaceful 
silence  should  not  any  longer  surround  the  cir- 
cumstance of  a  great  man's  death.  For  ten 
days  before  Tennyson  died  the  newspapers 
were  filled  with  the  name  of  the  great  poet, 
and  the  eye  of  England  was  on  him  alone. 
While  he  lived  we  watched  by  his  bed,  marking 
every  change  in  his  condition,  and  when  he  died 
we  stood  in  his  death-cham])er,  seeing  the  moon- 
light resting  on  his  grand  old  head  and  on  the 
hand  that  held  open  the  page  of  "  Cymbeline." 
When  his  body  was  put  into  the  coffin  we  were 
told  of  it,  and  we  were  told,  too,  when  it  was 
brought  on  its  last  night  ride  from  his  home 
in  the   country  to   Westminster   Abbey.     We 

386 


THE   LITERARY    LIFE 

were  told  who  made  his  pall,  and  the  nature  and 
design  of  it;  and,  when  the  final  page  of  his 
history  had  to  be  filled  up,  we  read  the  names 
of  some  two  hundred  out  of  more  than  twice 
two  thousand  who  followed  him  to  his  grave. 

I  was  one  of  the  latter,  and  I  well  remember 
the  effect  produced  upon  me  by  the  funeral  of 
the  greatest  man  of  letters  of  my  time.  The 
ceremony  was  noble  in  its  scene  and  its  propor- 
tions, and  in  the  presence  of  nearly  all  the  intel- 
lect of  the  land.  But  for  those  of  us  who  had 
no  personal  recollections  of  the  dead  poet  to 
touch  us  with  tender  memories,  there  was  little 
to  bring  the  tears  to  the  eyes  and  the  throb  to 
the  throat,  and  not  much  to  stir  the  imagination 
or  to  hold  the  heart  as  by  a  spell. 

I  myself  felt  the  incongruity  of  the  martial 
scene  as  the  funeral  of  a  great  writer.  There 
was  something  out  of  keeping  in  the  specta- 
cle of  Tennyson,  who  had  hidden  himself  from 
the  world  throughout  his  life,  exposed  to  its 
gaze  in  his  death.  He  loved  the  meadows,  the 
flowers,  the  elemental  passions  of  humble  life; 
he  was  a  child  of  nature,  and  he  fled  from  the 
glare  of  what  stands  to  the  children  of  the 
world  for  the  eye  of  the  light.  Him  the  utmost 
pomp  of  a  funeral  could  not  ennoble,  for  whom 
God  has  made  a  noble  poet  is  already  a  noble 

387 


MY    STORY 

man.  And  now  that  the  splendid  ceremony  is 
so  many  years  past,  in  the  gross  reckoning  of 
his  fame,  what  is  it?  Only  a  line  in  his  history, 
a  passing  word  that  makes  no  noise,  a  fact  that 
adds  nothing  to  his  gift,  and  pays  nothing  of 
our  debt  and  leaves  him  where  Wordsworth  is 
without  it. 

I  remember  that,  feeling  this  very  keenly  in 
the  mid-day  of  Tennyson's  funeral,  I  walked 
down  to  Westminster  again  at  night.  The  little 
door  in  the  cloisters  was  open,  and  I  stepped 
into  the  Abbey.  It  was  dark,  save  for  the  shift- 
ing light  of  a  lantern  over  the  place  of  the  poet's 
grave,  where  two  or  three  masons,  with  shrill 
taps  of  their  trowels,  were  cementing  down  the 
covering  stone.  And  then  I  felt  that,  different 
as  had  been  the  circumstances  of  the  burials  of 
Tennyson  and  Wordsworth,  that  was  an  hour 
when  the  scene  of  their  graves  was  the  same, 
though  the  one  was  in  the  heart  of  London  and 
the  other  in  the  arms  of  the  fells. 

The  crowds  were  gone,  with  their  eager  eyes 
and  curious  questions,  and  the  grave  was  filled 
and  the  stone  slid  over  it,  and  the  cloisters  were 
empty  and  the  transept  dark,  and  one  great  star 
"  globed  itself  "  through  a  window  of  the  clere- 
story, and  the  black  columns  of  the  nave  bowed 
their  heads  like  phantoms,  and  the  clock  chimed 

388 


THE    LITERARY    LIFE 

in  the  tower,  and  only  the  footsteps  of  the  por- 
ters echoed  in  the  aisles,  and  the  great  poet  lay 
alone  at  length,  "  compassed  round  by  the  blind 
walls  of  night,"  as  silent  in  the  surroundings  of 
his  last  sleep  as  if  no  bawling,  clamouring,  gar- 
rulous city  rolled  and  rushed  about  him,  and  he 
slumbered  with  his  simple  predecessor  in  the 
deep  solitude  of  the  sleeping  hills. 


26 


INDEX 


Academy,  The,  Rossetti's  "  Bal- 
lads and  Sonnets,"  161; 
Hall  Caine's  connection 
with,  174,366,367. 

AU  the  Year  Round,  "The 
Woman  in  White,"  serial, 
328. 

America,  an  early  story  of  Hall 
Caine's,  301 ;  Hall  Caine's 
visits  to,  350-64;  its  press, 
351-61;  no  libel  law,  357- 
58;  copyright  in,  362; 
characteristics  of  its  peo- 
ple, 363;  Dickens  in,  379. 

Angelo,  Michael,  Carlyle's  in- 
tention to  write  a  life  of, 
176. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  246. 

Athenceum,  The,  Rossetti  re- 
plies to  his  critics  in,  94; 
Rossetti's  "Ballads  and 
Sonnets,"  161 ;  Hall  Caine's 
connection  with,  174,  366, 
367. 

Ballads  and  Sonnets,  Rossetti's, 

161-63. 
Ballaugh,    Hall   Caine's    early 

daj's  at,  5,  8-14,  29:  the 

old  church,  24;  his  father 

born  at,  347. 


Barberino  (Francesco  da), 
poem,  "Sloth  against 
Sin,"  139. 

Barrett,  Wilson,  247,  336-40. 

Beddoes,  Thomas  Lovell,  65. 

Birchington,  218-40,  256. 

Blackfriar's  Bridge,  Rossetti's 
home  near,  83-85. 

Blackmore,  R.  D.,  286-99,  338. 

Blake,  William,  63. 

Blessed  Damozel,  The,  Long- 
fellow's admiration  for, 
178. 

Bondman,  The,  275, 

Brantwood,  259-62. 

Brassey,  Lord,  356. 

Bride  of  Lammermoor,  The, 
320,  325. 

Bright,  H.  A.,  52-54. 

British  Museum  Reading-room, 
248-49. 

Bromley,  James,  146. 

Brown,  Ford  Madox,  Hall 
Caine  sits  for,  66;  Pre- 
Raphaelites,  77,  115;  Eliz- 
abetli  Siddal,  82;  Rosset- 
ti's friend,  96,  208,  210; 
his  report  of  Hall  Caine, 
100;  "sententious  as  Dr. 
Johnson,"  108;  a  thumb- 
nail   sketch    of,    156;    on 


391 


INDEX 


Ruskin's  economic  propa- 
ganda, 1 78 ;  his  respect  for 
the  proprieties,  180;  ab- 
sence from  Rossetti's  fu- 
neral, 239. 

Brown,  the  Rev.  H.  S.,  300-1. 

Brown,  T.  E.,  301-18. 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett, 
177. 

Browning,  Robert,  Rossetti 
destroys  letters  from,  86; 
as  a  reader,  118;  Rossetti 
tallcs  of,  177;  Hall  Caine's 
meeting  with,  246. 

Buchanan,  Robert,  attacks 
Rossetti,  93;  retracts,  215- 
16;  the  man,  263-^4,  266- 
71 ;  explains,  263-66. 

Builder,  The,  44-47. 

Building  News,  44. 

Bulwer-Lytton,  Edward,  327. 

Bulwer-Lytton,  Rosina  (Bar- 
oness Lytton),  letter  to 
Wilkie  Collins,  327. 

Burden,  Jane.  See  Morris, 
Jane. 

Burne-Jones,  Sir  Edward,  his 
friendship  with  Rossetti, 
81,  87,  160,  180;  affection- 
ate meeting  with  Rossetti, 
208-9;  sudden  illness  on 
the  way  to  Rossetti's  fu- 
neral, 239. 

Caine,  Hall. 

Early  Days:  Isle  of  Man,  3- 
29;  uncles,  3-7,  25,  38-40; 
grandparents,  8-13,  20, 
30;  aunt,  14;  parents,  30- 

392 


32;  Liverpool,  30-43;  as 
architect,  32-35,  38,  43; 
meeting  with  Gladstone, 
33  -  34 ;  stewardship  of 
Gladstone's  estates,  34,  48; 
love  of  books,  35;  early 
hterary  efforts,  35-39,  254; 
Socialist,  39,  49;  New 
Theologian,  39;  "Am  I 
my  brother's  keeper?"  40; 
as  schoolmaster,  40-41 ; 
penny  readings  and  de- 
bates, 41-42;  Builder  and 
Builditig  News,  44-47; 
builder's  assistant,  48-50, 
61,  64,  66,  70,  132,  144- 
46;  lectures  at  Liverpool, 
55-59,  120-24,  154,  171, 
184;  "Supernatural  in 
Poetry,"  64-65;  Irving's 
Macbeth,  65;  "Night"— 
"Nell,"  66;  sits  to  Madox 
Brown,  66 ;  essay  on  Keats, 
143-44;  business  forsaken 
for  literature,  144-48;  re- 
viewing for  Athenaeum  and 
Academy,  174,  366,  367; 
Liverpool  Mercury,  243- 
53,  263,  302,  366-67; 
"rather  poor  and  very  lone- 
ly," 245;  post-mortem  ex- 
aminations, 247-48;  Brit- 
ish Museum  Reading- 
room,  248-49;  the  "Uni- 
versity of  Life,"  250-53; 
letters  from  Lord  Rosebery 
and  Mr.  Gladstone,  260; 
publishers'  scant  courtesy, 
272-74,    283-84;    a    pub- 


INDEX 


lisher's  reader,  284;  his 
parents'  tribute  to  Irving, 
346-49;  married,  366. 

Friendships:  D.  G.  Ros- 
setti,  first  touch,  42-43, 
51-56;  lecture  on,  55-59, 
120-24,  272;  correspond- 
ence, 58-71,  97-98,  100-1, 
131, 133-49;  his  life's  trag- 
edy, 81-82,  196-99,  211, 
216;  first  meeting,  100-1 1 ; 
a  night  at  Cheyne  Walk, 
112-32;  housemates  at 
Cheyne  Walk,  133-64— 
Cumberland,  153,  164-92; 
as  mentor,  135  etseq.,  223- 
24;  a  memorable  journey, 
192-99;  back  to  Chelsea, 
200-19;  treasured  mem- 
ories, 211;  at  Birchington, 
220  et  seq. ;  last  quiet  talk, 
231-33;  the  end,  235,  236- 
40. 

Early  literary  friendships, 
246. 

First  literary  friends,  44-59. 

John  Ruskin,  "Guild  of  St. 
George,"  39,  254-62;  en- 
couragement, 45-46;  a 
visit  to  his  home,  257-62; 
Henry  Irving,  50,  340-44, 
346-47;  Robert  Buchan- 
an, 263-71;  J.  S.  Cotton, 
280;  John  Lovell,  280-82; 
Watts-Dunton,  282-83;  R. 

D.  Blackmore,  286-99;  T. 

E.  Brown,  "Rossetti  alone 
excepted,  he  was  the  most 
brilliant    and    fascinating 


creature  I  have  ever 
known,"  301-18;  Wilkie 
Collins,  319-35;  Bram 
Stoker,  341,  343;  Charles 
A.  Cooper,  374. 

Novels:  Rossetti  as  foster- 
father,  1 74 ;  the  best  school 
for,  252;  a  confession,  285; 
journalism  sacrificed  for, 
366-67. 

First  novel — The  Shadow  of 
a  Crime,  275-78;  the  plac- 
ing of  it,  284-85;  Black- 
more 's  criticism,  286-87; 
T.  E.  Brown's  apprecia- 
tion, 301-3;  its  monetary 
value,  368. 

Second  novel — .4  Son  of 
Hagar,  368. 

First  Manx  Novel  —  The 
Deemster,  its  basis,  275; 
criticism  by  T.  E.  Brown, 
303-10 ;  reception  in  Manx- 
land,  309-12;  what  it  sold 
for,  368;  criticism  by  Wil- 
kie Collms,  319-21,  334- 
35. 

The  Bondman,  21  o ;  its 
characters  "recognised," 
312. 

The  Manxman,  the  "  origi- 
nal "  Pete  Quilliam,  312. 

Plays:  Encouragements  to 
write,  247,  288;  Wilson 
Barrett  accepts  "The 
Deemster,"  337;  indebted- 
ness to  him,  338;  first-night 
sensations,  339-40;  Irving 
asks  for  a  play,  340-43; 


393 


INDEX 


the    Lord    Chamberlain's 
interdict,  343;  difficulties 
of  writing,  344. 
Tennyson's      play      howled 

down,  344-45. 
Ibsen  and  morals,  346;  the 
demands  of  the  public, 346. 
Visits  to  America:  A  warm 
welcome,  350-51,  362;  in- 
terviewers, 351-55;  photo- 
graphic "hawks,"  356-57; 
journalism,  357-61 ;  copy- 
right,  362;   America  and 
its  people,  363-64. 
Canadian     Copyright     Bill, 

361-62. 
The  Literary  Life :  Encour- 
agement for  beginners, 
365  et  seq.;  remuneration, 
365-69;  its  greater  re- 
wards, 369,  374-75;  criti- 
cism, 371-74;  its  joys, 
374-75;  a  wide  horizon, 
376-78;  advantages,  378- 
79;  exacting  requirements, 
379;  heart-breaking  rec- 
ords, 379  ;  contrasts  : 
Wordsworth  and  Tenny- 
son, 380-89. 

Caine,  Lily,  219. 

Carlyle,  Jane  B.  W.,  176. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  his  residence, 
101;  Hall  Caine's  glimpse 
of,  153;  his  opinion  of 
Shelley,  176;  a  contem- 
plated life  of  Michael  An- 
gelo,  176-77. 

Castle,  Egerton,  367. 

Castletown,  28. 


Charlotte  Street,  Rossetti's 
birthplace,  75-76. 

Chatterton,  Thomas,  142-43. 

Chatto  and  Windus,  285. 

Cheyne  Walk,  Rossetti's  home, 
54-55,  67,  86-87,  101-10, 
112-30. 

Christabel,  141—42;  Borrow- 
dale  the  scene  of,  185. 

Clare  Market,  250. 

Clement's  Inn,  245,  250,  263, 
345. 

Cloud  Confines,  186. 

Coleridge,  Hartley,  385. 

Coleridge,  Lord,  246. 

Coleridge,  S.  T.,  Rossetti's  es- 
timate of,  141;  "Chris- 
tabel," and  its  continua- 
tions, 141-42;  "Work 
without  Hope,"  Rossetti's 
love  for,  160;  Borrowdale 
the  scene  of  "Christabel," 
185;  outlived  by  his  friend 
Wordsworth,  383. 

Collins,  William  Wilkie,  treat- 
ment of  lunatics  on  the  Isle 
of  Man,  19;  "The  Deem- 
ster," 319,  334-35;  pic- 
tures, 321;  the  man,  322- 
24,  333-34;  dramatic  pi- 
racy, 324;  French  writers 
and  Dickens,  Scott,  Reade, 
325-33;  boyish  delight  in 
his  work,  326;  stories  of 
"The  Woman  in  White," 
227-29;  i)ress  versus  pub- 
lic, 329-30;  laudanum, 
331-32;  "Reminiscences," 
332;  paralysis,  333. 


394 


INDEX 


Colonial  Office,  361. 

Coniston,  239,  259. 

Contemporary  Review,  The, 
"The  Fleshly  School  of 
Poetry,"  92-94;  a  retrac- 
tion, 215-16;  Buchanan's 
explanation,  263-66. 

Cooper,  Charles  A.,  374. 

Copyright,  324 ;  in  Canada  and 
America,  361-62. 

Corkill,  Billy,  26,  41. 

Cotton,  J.  S.,  "The  Shadow  of 
a  Crime,"  280. 

County  Council  (London), 
rookeries  of  Clare  Market, 
250. 

Cumberland,  Rossetti  and  Hall 
Caine,  148,  153,  164-92; 
a  legend  of,  275-78,  300. 

Dante's  Dream,  113-15,  130; 
sold  to  Liverpool,  160; 
Noel  Paton's  opinion  of, 
161. 

Dead  Souls,  373. 

Deemster,  The,  71,  275,  319-20, 
334-35. 

De  Quincey,  Thomas,  184,  331. 

Deverell,  Mrs.,  78-79. 

Deverell,  W.  H.,  Pre-Raphael- 
ite, 77;  meeting  with 
Rossetti's  future  wife,  78- 
79. 

Dickens,  Charles,  298;  an 
etching  of,  321;  Wilkie 
Collins  and,  325,  328,  333; 
in  America,  350,  362,  379; 
delight  in  his  work,  375. 

Douglas,  3,  4,  5,  28. 


Dove  Cottage,  184. 

Dove  Dale,  337. 

Dowden,  Edward,  52,  161. 

Dumas,  325. 

Du  Maurier,  G.  L.  P.,  159. 

Eliot,  George,   101,   175,  293, 

302. 
English    Society    of    Authors, 

361-62. 

Festus,  53. 

Fisher  Ghyll,  168. 

"Fleshly   School    of    Poetry," 

92-94. 
Fo'c's'le    Yarns,    301-3,    306, 

310. 
Fors  Clavigera,  39. 
Forster,  John,  328. 
Found,  212,  213. 

Gad's  Hill,  333. 

Garrick,  David,  a  relic  of,  125. 

Gaskell,  Elizabeth  C,  53,  302. 

Gell,  Sir  James,  J.  P.,  19. 

Germ,  The,  77. 

Gladstone,  William  Ewart,  33- 
34,  260. 

God  and  the  Man,  215. 

Godkin,  E,  L.,  356-57. 

Godwin,  George,  46-47. 

Gogol,  N.  v.,  373. 

Grasmere,  184. 

Grasmere  Churchyard,  Words- 
worth's funeral,  384-86, 
389. 

Gray,  David,  267. 

Greta  Hall,  184. 

"Guild  of  St.  George,"  39,  254. 


395 


INDEX 


Hake,  Dr.  T.  G..  97. 
HalUwell-Phillipps,  J.  O.,  112. 
Hamlet,   320;  a  tribute  to  Ir- 

ving's  Hamlet,  347-49. 
Hay,  John  (Secretary  of  State, 

r.  S.  A.),  358. 
Henley,  W.  E.,  313. 
Herbert,    Miss,    prediction    of 

Irving's  success,  113. 
Highgate    Cemetery,    85,    89, 

238. 
Houghton,     Lord,     "Life     of 

Keats,"   52-53;   describes 

Rossetti,      53-54;     Hall 

Caine  and,   246. 
House  of  Life,  The,  Rossetti's 

sonnets,  117. 
Hugo,  Victor,  325. 
Hunt,  Leigh,  176. 
Hunt,  W.  Holman,  friendship 

with    Rossetti,    77,    160; 

Pre-Raphaelite,  115;  Ros- 
setti talks  of,  180. 

Ibsen,  346. 

Iceland,  251. 

Interviewers,  351-57. 

Irving,  Henry,  "Notes  and 
Queries"  Society,  50-51; 
Hall  Caine's  pamphlet  on 
his  Macbeth,  65;  MLss  Her- 
bert predicts  success,  112- 
13;  invites  Hall  Caine  to 
write  a  play — unsuccess- 
ful efforts,  340-41;  "A 
compound  of  Voltaire  and 
Cardinal  Manning,"  341- 
43;  a  crowning  tribute, 
346-49. 


Isle  of  Man,  Hall  Caine's  early 
days  in,  3-29,  31-32,  38- 
43,  254;  intermarriage,  8, 
18;  superstitions,  9;  court- 
ship, 14;  marriage,  15; 
poor  relief,  16-17;  lunacy, 
18-19;  its  government,  19- 
20,  28,  304;  banks  and 
money-lending,  20-21 ;  re- 
ligious life,  21-27;  intemT 
perance,  22;  wrecking  and 
smuggling,  24;  a  Christ- 
mas-eve custom,  25-27; 
newspapers,  27,  309;  its 
isolation,  27-28;  the  Lord 
Bishop,  28;  history,  304; 
its  first  novelist,  309-12; 
T.  E.  Brown,  313-16. 

Isle  of  Wight,  Hall  Caine  re- 
siding in,  274. 

Italy  and  its  exiles,  75-76. 

James  I.  of  Scotland,  Rossetti's 
ballad,  98. 

Jan  Va7i  Hunks,  ballad,  222. 

Jeffrey,  Francis,  Lord  Jeffrey, 
380. 

Jenny,  making  for  moral  ends, 
57;  revised,  64;  "a  ser- 
mon," 122;  a  great  social 
problem,  212-13;  a  kind 
act,  214-15. 

Johnson,  Samuel,  Ford  Madox 
Brown  as  sententious  as, 
108;  Rossetti  a  late  riser 
like,  119;  in  Clare  Market, 
250. 

Johnson,  William,  Words- 
worth's farewell  to,  382. 


396 


INDEX 


Keats,  John,  51,  52-53,  57,  62- 

63,  143-44,  232. 
King's  College  School,  Rossetti 

at,  76. 
King's  Tragedy,  150,  186. 
Kirk  Maughold,  23. 
Kirk  Maughold  Head,  40-41. 

Lamb,  Charles,  141,  3&3. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage,  52-53. 

Lewes,  G.  H.,  175. 

Leyland,  Frederick,  157. 

Lights  o'  Leith,  264. 

"Limericks,"  109,  158. 

Liverpool,  Hall  Caine's  early 
days  in,  30-43,  64;  Rus- 
kin,  46;  Hall  Caine's  lec- 
tures at,  55-59,  120-24, 
154,  171,  184;  purchases 
"Dante's  Dream,"  160; 
Hall  Caine  leaves  for  Lon- 
don, 336, 337;  Hall  Caine's 
father  in,  347. 

Liverpool  Free  Library,  35,  55. 

Liverpool  Mercury,  The,  Hall 
Caine  and,  243-53,  263, 
302,  366-67. 

Liverpool, "Notes  and  Queries  " 
Society,  50-51,  55. 

Longfellow,  H.  AV.,  Rossetti's 
story  of,  177-78. 

Lord  Chamberlain,  The,  inter- 
dicts "Mohammed,"  343. 

Lorna  Doone,  286,  289,  294-96. 

Lothair,  90-91. 

Louis  XI,  Irving  in,  349. 

Louise,  Princess,  supposed 
connection  with  "  Lorna 
Doone,"  295. 


Lovell,  John,  244,  247,  280-82, 
366-67. 

Macbeth,  Hall  Caine's  pam- 
phlet on,  65. 

Maitland,  Thomas.  See  Bu- 
chanan, Robert. 

Manchester  Town  Hall,  its 
frescoes,  66,  157. 

Marshall,  Dr.  John,  128,  187. 

Marston,  Phillip  B.,  at  Cheyne 
Walk,  156-57,  204-5;  at 
Rossetti's  funeral,  239. 

Marston,  Westland,  at  Cheyne 
Walk,  204-5. 

Mary  Magdalene,  212,  213. 

Maud,  Tennyson's  reading  of, 
118. 

Maurice,  Frederick  Denison, 
118. 

Mazzini,  259. 

Meredith,  George,  at  Cheyne 
Walk,  87. 

Millais,  Sir  John  E.,  a  Pre- 
.  Raphaelite,  76 ;  portrait  of 
Ruskin  and  its  sequel,  1 79 ; 
"something  of  a  swell," 
180:  portrait  of  Wilkie 
Collins,  321. 

Morris,  Jane,  influence  on 
Rossetti,  81-82;  immor- 
talised in  Rossetti's  pic- 
tures, 157. 

Morris,  W,,  "Notes  and 
Queries"  Society,  50-51; 
friendship  with  Rossetti, 
81,  87,  160;  "The  Fleshly 
School  of  Poetry,"  92;  a 
fine  reader,  118;  declaim- 


397 


INDEX 


ing   "The   Earthly   Para- 
dise," 180. 

Nell,  Rossetti  and,  66. 
New  Magdalen,  The,  324. 
Night,  Rossetti  and,  65-66. 
Noble,  Ashcroft,  51-52. 
North,  Christopher,  380. 
North    Foreland    Lighthouse, 

328. 
"Notes  and  Queries"  Society, 

50-51,  52,  5o. 

Opiates,  82,  84,  86  et  seq.,  126- 
28,  147,  151,  163,  165-68, 
185-86,  187  et  seq.,  206, 
331-32. 

Oxford  and  Cambridge,  The,  77. 

Oxford  University,  undergrad- 
uates digging  at,  39;  the 
frescoes  at  the  Union  De- 
bating Hall,  81,  181. 

Paton,  Sir  Joseph  Noel, 
"Dante's  Dream,"  161. 

Peel,  28. 

Philadelphia,  354. 

Piracy,  324. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  unmoral 
poetry,  57;  Rossetti  re- 
cites poems  of,  186. 

Poems  of  a  Painter,  1 76. 

Poems,  Rossetti's,  buried  with 
Rossetti's  wife,  42-43,  52, 
85;  exhumation  of,  55,  88- 
90;  publication — their  re- 
ception, 90-95;  Tennyson 
and,  177. 

Politics  and  Art,  137-38. 


Pre-Raphaelitism,  77,  115. 
Promise  of  May,  The,  344-45. 
Punch,    Oscar    Wilde    carica- 
tured, 159. 

Queen's   House.     See  Cheyne 

Walk. 
Quillinan,  Edward,  383-84. 

Ramsey,  28. 

Rathbone,  Philip,  50. 

Raven,  The,  186. 

Reade,  Charles,  and  Wilkie 
Collins,  325. 

Robinson  Crabbe,  383. 

Rogers,  Samuel,  383. 

Rome,  298,  316. 

Rose  Mary,  116,  131. 

Rosebery,  Lord,  260. 

Rossetti,  Christina  G.,  157, 
228,  230,  231,  235. 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel 
(Gabriel  Charles  Dante), 
His  Life:  Parentage,  75-76; 
education,  76;  meets  his 
future  wife,  78  et  seq. ;  their 
engagement,  80;  a  tragic 
entanglement?  81-82,  196- 
99,211,  216;  marriage,  82; 
domestic  unhappiness,  82- 
83,  196;  his  wife's  death, 
84-85,  195-97;  opiates,  86 
et  seq.,  126-28,  147,  151, 
163,  165-68,  185,  187  et 
seq. ;  a  humorous  rascal.  89, 
225-20,  255-57,  263-65; 
secluded  life,  95-96,  123; 
emerges  from  retirement, 
96  et  seq. ;  paralysis,  204-5 ; 


398 


INDEX 


conquering  the  craving  for 
chloral,  206-7. 

His  Home:  Cheyne  Walk, 
54-55,  67,  86-87,  101  et 
seq.,  124-30,  149-64,  200- 
19,  238;  Charlotte  Street, 
75-76,142;  Chatham  Place, 
83-85. 

Word  Portraits,  53-55,  78 
et  seq.;  unselfishness,  69- 
71 ;  morbid  sensitiveness  to 
criticism,  93-96,  120-24- 
162-63;  age  fifty-two,  104- 
8;  elocutionary  powers, 
110,  117-18,  186;  alert- 
ness of  mind,  173-74; 
stories  of  early  days,  181; 
new  man  mentally,  207. 

Poetry:  Poems  buried  with 
his  wife,  42,  52,  85;  poems 
exhumed,  55,  88-90,  195; 
an  analysis,  56;  "Jenny," 
57,  64,  212,  213,  214-15; 
early  efforts,  77-78;  for- 
saken for  painting,  81; 
publication  of  "Poems," 
90-95;  bitter  attacks — 
"The  Fleshly  School  of 
Poetry,"  92-94,  121;  ap- 
preciation, 96;  a  fresh 
start,  97;  Limericks,  109, 
158;  "The  White  Ship," 
110;  "Rose Mary, ""House 
of  Life,"  "Without  Her," 
116-17;  "Ballads  and  Son- 
nets," 161-63;  Buchanan's 
retraction,  215-16;  "Jan 
Van  Hunks,"  222;  love 
of  ballad  literature,  232; 

399 


Buchanan's    explanation, 
263-66. 

Painting  :  Pre-Raphaelit- 
ism,  77;  EUzabeth  E.  Sid- 
dal,  as  pupil  and  model, 
70;  frescoes  at  Oxford, 
81 ;  a  substantial  living, 
87;  studio,  105-6,  117; 
"Dante's  Dream,"  113-15 
130,  160-61;  "weary  of 
Pre-Raphaelitism,"  115; 
a  purchaser,  157;  "Dante's 
Dream"  purchased  by 
Liverpool,  160  ;  Noel 
Paton,  161;  in  Cumber- 
land, 170-71;  faiUng  in- 
terest, 183;  "Found,"  212; 
"Mary  Magdalene,"  212, 
213. 

His  Friends:  155-63. 

Friendship  with  Hall 
Caine:  Lecture  by  Hall 
Caine,  55-59,  120-24;  cor- 
respondence, 58-71,  97- 
98,100-1,131,1.33,  etseq.; 
their  first  meeting,  100-1 1 ; 
at  Cheyne  Walk,  112- 
32;  housemates — Cheyne 
Walk,  133-64;  Cumber- 
land, 148,  153,  164-92; 
back  to  Chelsea,  200-19; 
Birchington,  218-40;  a 
Cumberland  legend,  275- 
78. 

Failing  Health:  150-51, 
1 58, 1 6 1 , 1 83  e<  seq. ;  paraly- 
sis, 204-7. 

Last  Day-s:  Fears  of  pover- 
ty,   202,    211;    dread    of 


INDEX 


death;  202-3,  211,  230; be- 
lief in  God,  203;  a  spiritual 
mood,  210;  an  agnostic, 
211 ;  society  outcasts,  212- 
15;  leaving  home  for  the 
lasttime,218-19;  spiritual- 
ism, 224;  the  other  life, 
230-31 ;  an  evil  influence, 
232-33;  making  his  will, 
233-34;  "Gabriel  has 
gone,"  235;  funeral,  239- 
40. 

Rossetti,  E.  E.  (D.  G.  Ros- 
setti's  wife),  in  a  milliner's 
workroom,  78-79;  helped 
by  Ruskin,  becomes  a 
pupil  of  D.  G.  Rossetti — 
their  engagement,  79-80; 
described,  79,  80;  a  separa- 
tion, 80-81 ;  a  disturbing 
element,  81-82;  a  tragic 
suggestion,  81-82,  196-99, 
211,  216;  married  to  Ros- 
setti, 82;  evil  rumours — 
laudanum,  82-83;  "acci- 
dental death,"  84;  MS. 
of  Rossetti's  poems  buried 
with  her,  85;  exhumation, 
88-90;  "She  had  great 
genius,"  125. 

Rossetti,  Frances  P.  (D.  G. 
Rossetti's  mother),  75, 
157,  228-31,  235,  237. 

Rossetti,  Gabriele  (D.  G.  Ros- 
setti's father),  an  exile — 
his  home  in  London,  75- 
76. 

Rossetti,  Lucy  (W.  M.  Ros- 
setti's wife),  163,  236. 


Rossetti,  Maria  F.,  75. 

Rossetti,  William  Michael, 
brotherly  love,  71,  88,  96, 
155,  191,  201,  210,  233, 
235;  the  only  brother,  75; 
Hall  Caine  meets  him,  103, 
108,  110;  "If  my  brother 
had  his  due  he  would  be 
buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey,"  238. 

Royal  Academy  Antique  School, 
Rossetti  at,  76. 

Ruskin,  Euphemia  C,  sepa- 
rated from  her  husband, 
179. 

Ruskin,  John,  "Guild  of  St. 
George,"  39;  encourage- 
ment, 45-46,  50,  254; 
on  Pre-Raphaelitism,  77; 
Elizabeth  E.  Siddal  and, 
79-81 ;  D.  G.  Rossetti,  86, 
118-19,  160,  178-79,  239, 
255;  his  wife,  179;  his  sec- 
retary, 225-26,  255-57; 
Brantwood  and  its  treas- 
ures, 259-62. 

Russell,  Sir  Edward  R.,  51, 247. 

Samuelson,  Alderman,  invites 
Hall  Caine  to  lecture  at 
Liverpool,  154. 

Savage,  Richard,  250. 

Scapegoat,  The,  275,  300-18. 

Scotsman,  The,  374. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  172;  MS. 
at  Brantwood,  260;  hand- 
writing like  Gladstone's, 
260-61;  his  long  prefa- 
tory   chapters,    279;    his 


400 


INDEX 


contrasts,  320;  joy  in  his 
work,  375;  struggles,  379; 
visitor  of  Wordsworth, 
380. 

Scott,  W.  Bell,  sensitiveness  to 
poetry,  118;  a  description 
of,  1.56:  Carlyle,  176;  Hall 
Caine,  243. 

Seaforth,  Gladstone's  property 
at,  33-34. 

Seddon,  John  P.,  his  bungalow 
at  Birchington  where  Ros- 
settidicd,  218. 

Severn,  Mrs.,  260. 

Shakespeare,  bust  of,  105; 
sonnets,  137;  "One  of  the 
three  greatest  English 
imaginations,"  141;  and 
Chatterton,  142;  his  con- 
trasts, 320;  the  American 
comparison,  352. 

Sharp,  William,  Rossetti's 
friend,  156-57. 

Shelley,  Mrs.,  176. 

Shelley,  P.  B.,  Lord  Houghton 
on,  .52;  Rossetti  on,  63,  65; 
Frederic  Shields  as  hyster- 
ical as,  108;  great  imagina- 
tive powers,  141;  letter 
from  Keats,  144;  Bell 
Scott  and  Carlyle  on,  176; 
cottage  at  Castlerigg,  185. 

Shields,  Frederic,  friendship 
with  Rossetti,  96-97,  156, 
191,  201-2,  208,  210,  231, 
233,  235;  "as  hysterical  as 
Shelley,"  108;  makes  a 
pencil  sketch  of  his  dead 
friend,  237. 


Siddal,  Elizabeth.  See  Ros- 
setti, E.  E. 

Sloth  against  Sin,  139. 

Smith,  Goldwin,  358. 

Son  of  H agar,  A,  368. 

Southey,  Robert,  184,  383. 

Spurgeon,  C.  H.,  159. 

Stephens,  F.  G.,  Rossetti's 
friend,  66-67;  Pre-Raph- 
aelite, 77. 

Stoker,  Bram,  341,  343. 

Sulby  Glen,  4. 

Supernatural  in  Poetry,  64-65. 

Swinburne,  Algernon  €.,  Ros- 
setti makes  his  acquaint- 
ance, 81 ;  at  Cheyne  Walk, 
87;  essay  on  Rossetti's 
"Poeins,"  91;  impeached 
as  of  "The  Fleshly 
School,"  92;  Rossetti  talks 
of,  116,  137,  159-60,  180; 
as  a  reader,  118;  Hall 
Caine  meets,  240. 

Taylor,  Sir  Henry,  208. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord,  Ros- 
setti destroys  letters  from, 
86;  his  sensitiveness  to 
poetry,  118;  Rossetti  talks 
of  him,  177;  "The  Promise 
of  May"  howled  down, 
344-45;  his  death  and 
funeral  contrasted  with 
Wordsworth's,  386-89. 

Thackeray,  William  Make- 
peace, 350,  362. 

Three  Mxisketeers,  The,  325. 

Times,  The,  Wilkie  Collins  on 
treatment   of   lunatics   in 


401 


INDEX 


Man,  19;  Ruskin  sup- 
pbrts  Pre-Raphaelites  in, 
77. 

Tirebuck,  William,  36,  50,  339. 

Tolstoi,  L.  N.,  Count,  on  work 
of  William  Tirebuck,  36; 
book.s  of,  378. 

Tree,  H.  Beerbohm,  344. 

Trelawney,  Edward  John,  63. 

Tupper,  M.  F.,  his  contin- 
uation of  ''Christabel" 
("Geraldine"),  142. 

Turgenieff,  I.  S.,  208. 

Turner,  J.  M.,  101. 

Ulalume,  186. 

Vale  of  St.  John.     See  Cum- 
berland. 
Vauxhall  Gardens,  181. 

Watson,  William,  51-52. 

Watts-Dunton,  W.  T.,  his 
affectionate  friendship 
with  Rossetti,  96,  155-56, 
158,  191,  201-2,  208,  210, 
216,  231,  233,  235,  240; 
a  head  like  Napoleon's, 
108;  Rossetti's  paintings, 
157:      Swinburne,      160; 


"Ballads  and  Sonnets," 
161 ;  Hall  Caine,  246,  282- 
83. 

Wesley,  John,  25. 

Westminster  Abbey,  Tenny- 
son's funeral,  386-89. 

Whistler,  J.  McNeill,  159. 

White  Ship,  The,  110.' 

Wilde,  Oscar,  159. 

Wilson,  Bishop,  15,  305. 

Without  Her,  117. 

Woman  in  White,  The,  324, 
327-30. 

Woolner,  Thomas,  a  Pre- 
Raphaelite,  77. 

Wordsworth,  Dorothy,  385. 

Wordsworth,  John,  382. 

Wordsworth,  Mary,  384. 

Wordsworth,  William,  Ros- 
setti on,  140-41;  Dove 
Cottage,  184;  reception  of 
first  work,  380;  always 
poor,  380;  recognition  at 
last,  381;  death,  381- 
84;  buried  in  Grasmere 
Churchyard,  384-86;  a 
contrast  with  Tennyson, 
386-89. 

Working  Men's  College,  118. 

Tl^orA;  without  Hope,  160. 


(1) 


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